


My Weapon, My Religion

by SillyRomantic4Ever



Series: Mandalorian Legacy [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: After Chapter 3: The Sin, Cholganna (Star Wars planet), Couldn't get this out of my head, Dxun - mentioned, Dxun Mandalorians, Gen, Mandalorian & the Child -- bonding, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian Fighting Circle, Mandalorian Wars (mentioned), Mandalorian's POV, Onderon (Star Wars), Onderon - mentioned, Onderon politics come back to haunt OFC, Onderonians v. Mandalorians, Outer Rim Territory (Star Wars), Parent-Child Relationship, Planets from Star Wars, Winner is the child's guardian, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 91,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyRomantic4Ever/pseuds/SillyRomantic4Ever
Summary: After the Mandalorian steals the Child and escapes the planet Nevarro, he must decide where he will go and what he will do. As he protects a special baby, one that he does not understand, he travels across the Outer Rim, looking for a place to hide. Along the way, he runs into someone just as different as the Child, someone who also forms a close bond with the alien baby. With his defenses up and his hand always touching his blaster, the Mandalorian finds himself engaged in a battle of wits and wills with this mysterious traveler.(I am not very good at summaries. Please check this out and see!)
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s)
Series: Mandalorian Legacy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711477
Comments: 74
Kudos: 146





	1. Where To?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Thank you for giving my story a try. This is my very first "Star Wars" fanfiction. I had promised myself never to write one, even though the "Star Wars" universe is so very dear to my heart. But after watching the second chapter of "The Mandalorian," a story idea popped into my head, and I just could not turn it off no matter how hard I tried. Before I knew it, I had conjured up a lengthy fiction. I do not know how long "My Weapon, My Religion" will be or how many parts it will entail.
> 
> I have not posted a story on AO3 for years. Whenever I did, my fics were already written out. So, what I am doing with this fiction is something I have not done before. I will see if I can finish what I started, and I hope to find some kind of routine that will allow me to post, at least, weekly.
> 
> Comments and kudos are most welcome! Please be kind and courteous. I have done a lot of "Star Wars" research—to reinforce what knowledge I already know—and my goal is to share information about the fandom that most do not delve into, such as planets, characters, and history (or legend as it is now called when it should still be considered canon). This story takes place right after "Chapter 3: The Sin" from "The Mandalorian."
> 
> Again, thank you for giving "My Weapon, My Religion" a try! I hope you enjoy my story as much as I have enjoyed creating it.
> 
> (I do not own "The Mandalorian," "Star Wars," etc. If I did, let's just say that Episodes VII-IX would not exist and that what is no longer considered canon by Disney would STILL be canon. This story is purely for enjoyment.)

* * *

Chapter I: Where To?

_Location:[Hyperspace](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190066416433/chapter-i-where-to-from-my-weapon-my)_

His hand flips a switch on the control panel of his ship, turning it on automatic pilot mode. The sound of the engines’ purring brings comfort to him, and the bounty hunter feels himself give a half-smile. The _Razor Crest_ has served him well over the years, and he cannot ask for a better ship, despite its older age. Thanks to the Ugnaught, Kuiil, back on Arvala-7, everything has been running smoothly, so far.

He thinks of Kuiil, the one who had helped him build the _Crest_ from its metal skeleton to its former glory. Without him, the Mandalorian would not have been able to get his ship’s parts back from those pesky Jawas, those little thieves. Kuiil had been a good negotiator, and the man sometimes finds himself wishing that the alien mechanic had taken him up on his offer and joined him. He actually enjoyed Kuiil’s company, especially since he was not much of a talker. He wonders if the Ugnaught would have had an idea as to the best planet where he should hide the child.

“Where to go,” he mutters to himself.

For the past hour he had been traveling in the Outer Rim Territories, but he is still not sure where he can disappear to. Maybe he should not have stayed in the Outer Rim after all. Anyone looking for the child and knowing that he had taken him will figure out that they will want to lay low somewhere. And almost everyone will consider the Outer Rim as an obvious choice. Perhaps a more populated planet, like Coruscant, is a better place. He considers the possibility that they can disappear amongst the over-crowded cities and people, or they can go to the lower districts of Coruscant.

With a shake of his head, he pushes these thoughts aside. He was set to stay in the Outer Rim, and his instinct has not vetoed his decision. He needs to stick to his plan. Once he approaches another sector of the Outer Rim, he will exit hyperspace and then choose a system to specifically hide in.

He glances over his shoulder at the child, the one who had somehow found a chink in his Mandalorian armor. The little green alien is sleeping soundly in the backseat. The silver knob from one of the dashboards levers, the shiny object that he had been playing with, is in his small three-fingered hand. Even in sleep the kid will not be parted from it, and he smirks behind his helmet.

Facing the front again, he stares at the blue tunnel of hyperspace. It swirls before him, leading him further and further away from his Tribe. The various shades of blue are mesmerizing. If he looks long enough, it just may swallow him whole, forcing him into another reality, alone and forgotten. But up ahead is a bright light, his unknown goal. He is not sure if, or when, he will see his tribe members again, or feel a sense of belonging. Tribe Ordo will settle once more, but where, he is not certain. How will they be able to contact him? Will he have to search for them as if they are his next bounty?

A curse in Mando’a escapes him before he can stop himself. He should have made arrangements to keep in contact with his Tribe. He just took for granted that they will be where they have always been. And because of his thoughtlessness he will be a Mandalorian without a tribe, a warrior without a people to call his own, wandering throughout the galaxy like a lost soul. Like the foundling he had once been all those years ago.

The Tribe and its members are his family, even if he hardly has enough time to bond with them. He will not be able to see the results of his contributions to the group's foundlings, to witness their growth and security. He will miss the wisdom and calm of their Armorer. She had risked a lot, allowing the Tribe’s fighters to help him escape with the child, exposing them to the town’s inhabitants. He owes her a debt he doubts he can repay.

He turns his gaze away from the hyperspace tunnel. He needs to think of the present now and make plans. Did he do the right thing, saving the kid from those exiled Imperial fighters? He had broken the Bounty Hunter Guild’s code and had lost Tribe Ordo's desire to stay secret. He is now on the run with limited funds and with a high chance of other bounty hunters chasing him. And for what? A child? What is so special about this fifty-year-old kid in the form of a toddler? Sure, the alien somehow lifted a creature from the ground and saved his life. What does the Imperial leader want with him? To dissect him?

The idea makes him cringe. But what was he thinking? Where will he go? How long will he have to hide, and with the child in tow? He is not qualified to raise a kid. He does not have the time or the luxury to be a parent. Besides, he is not a father and is in no position to take care of him—though his Mandalorian roots whisper that adoption is part of their heritage.

_This is the way,_ his Tribe's maxim dictates to him.

_But_ this _is different,_ he counters.

He cannot have a conspicuous, green alien following him around for the rest of his life. If the kid is fifty now with a toddler mannerism, then what will another fifty years do to him? Will he be four years old or six? The concept feels preposterous to him. In fifty years, _he_ will be too old to care for the child. Perhaps he can find a place, a home, where he can leave the kid so he can return to his life, his Tribe, his job.

His controls alert him that he will be arriving in his designated sector of the Outer Rim Territories in a few moments. He feels his lips press together tightly when he realizes that the time for thinking is coming to a close. And he still does not know where to hide.

He straightens his back and sits forward in the pilot’s chair. He flips a switch to activate his holomap. His eyes scan over system after system, and his brain rejects each one—until he comes across grid coordinates T-5.

As he gazes at the projection of the Cholganna System, he hesitates. This territory has four planets, Chol, Cholganna, Ryien, and Be’ekk. The holo-planets dance around the system’s star, Chol, its shining sun. He notices a thick battalion of nebulae stations itself in the system, coloring the black of space from deep blood-red to pale orange.

The first planet closest to the sun is Chol, and he rolls his eyes at the creativity of the planet’s name. Its surface is brown, probably because of its proximity to the sun. So, he rejects the planet, thinking the child will not do so well in such a hot climate. Besides, he himself just may roast alive underneath his armor on Chol.

Next, he analyzes the largest and second closest planet to the sun: Cholganna. He selects it on his holomap, and his computer reads off the general information of the planet.

_“Population: less than one million. Industry: medicines, high technology, and information.”_

The Mandalorian silences his computer and studies the planet’s green and blue surface. It appears that Cholganna boasts of mountains, rainforests, and oceans—an adequate place for the child. He can find a remote spot, which does not seem too problematic considering there were only a handful of small settlements peppered across Cholganna. He figures that a planet this large, with thick expanses of wilderness, can hide him and the baby alien without difficulty.

But before he decides too quickly, he turns his attention to Ryien and Be’ekk, the last two planets in the system. While Ryien is small and grey, Be’ekk is reddish-brown and boasts of rings. Though, he hardly gives these two planets any further thought. His mind is already made up.

He returns to study Cholganna for another moment. The Chol Nebulae covers about a quarter of the planet, but he believes that he can navigate his way through it easily enough. So, he turns off his holomap, determined. His gloved fingers fly across the control panel, and he sets the coordinates for the planet. Considering how close it was, he should be arriving on Cholganna shortly.

His mind pokes at him the moment he adjusts his destination, and it sends a signal to his gut, which then tightens just enough to get his attention. He forces himself not to groan from frustration. He has found a suitable planet and hiding spot. Why can he not simply settle there? His brain pokes him harder, pestering him to flip through his memory and consider all the factors. So, he settles back in his chair and thinks, again.

He closes his eyes and focuses on what he knows of Cholganna. Too annoyed to have his computer read off more data, he searches through the loads of information stored away safely in his mind. There is something about this system, about Cholganna itself that he cannot seem to remember. What is it again? The people, the creatures living there? Or is it the nebula? Perhaps the space cloud is not just gas.

Before he can silence his doubts and gut, his ship beeps, spitting him and the kid out of hyperspace. He grabs the _Crest_ ’s controls, ignoring his concerns for the time being. The blue hues of hyperspace quickly disappear and are replaced by white lines, stretching as far as the eye can see. His ship comes to a halt, and the white lines shrink into stars twinkling in space.

He has almost two seconds to gather his bearings before he is plunged into the Chol Nebulae itself. He had taken too long thinking that he was not able to bypass the cloud or make a plan to fly out of it. With his vision compromised, he is now piloting blindly. His gaze is greeted by thick clouds of red and orange, and he hears his computer beeping, alerting him that the _Crest_ ’s sensors are malfunctioning.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he mutters.

The orange hues of the nebulae morph into a blood-red. A dark splotch of crimson races towards his ship, and he instinctively maneuvers the _Crest_ to his left. As the splotch passes him by, he catches a glimpse of a meteoroid.

“Perfect.”

With experienced hands, he pilots the _Crest_ through the nebulae. A cloud of dust sprinkles the ship with pebbles, and he barely misses the remnants of another ship’s broken wing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a huge object aiming for him, so he jerks the _Crest_ to his right. He releases a breath, thankful his quick reflexes spared him and the kid from an unexpected landing on a huge meteoroid.

An onslaught of space debris greets him, making him pay for his evasive maneuver. The _Crest_ shudders as the garbage spears into it. His ears pick up the sound of metal screeching against metal, and he cannot stop his jaw from tightening at the noise. It is so loud that it wakes up the child who then gurgles out something, probably a question.

Too busy to pay the baby alien any attention, the bounty hunter maneuvers the _Crest_ downward, trying to avoid the large assault of debris. He accelerates the ship to maximum speed. The dive maneuver is so abrupt he can hear the child squeal next to him.

Within seconds, he exits the Chol Nebulae and tries to pull up from his dive. He lets out a breath the moment he does successfully.

“What the . . . ?”

Another cloud of debris attacks him and his ship. He sees pieces of metal slam into his front window. He feels the _Crest_ jolt, shaking him past his silver armor and down to his bones. The alarms in his ship roar with life, and red lights blink all across his control panel.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”


	2. Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I still don't own anything Star Wars-related.

Chapter II: _Starlight_

_Location:[Cholganna System](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190124370213/chapter-ii-starlight-from-my-weapon-my)_

_Coordinates: T-5_

His ship’s alarms are screeching like a horde of Ithorians. If they shriek any louder, they will give him a slight headache. But they are all telling him what he already knows: the _Crest_ is damaged. If he does not find out where his ship has been battered, he may just shoot his alarms so they can shut up and let him deal with this crisis in peace.

 _I should’ve listened to my instincts,_ he thinks begrudgingly as he makes an effort to turn off the alarms—though shooting them into silence would have been more satisfying to him. He feels the _Crest_ veering to his right, and his grip on the controls tighten. _That blasted planet is already giving me problems, and I haven’t even landed on it yet._

Beside him, the child gurgles again and says something indistinguishable. He glances in his direction. The green alien is standing on his seat, pointing to the lush planet. In awe, his eyes have widened even more.

The Mandalorian ignores him. With one hand firmly holding onto the controls, he uses his other to flip some switches on his panel. His gaze sweeps left then right before landing on one particular screen flashing red and orange: engines and thrusters. His left engine is burnt out for the time being, and he curses in Mando’a, blaming the planet and its nebula-infested system. Despite his bad feeling about Cholganna, he has no other choice _but_ to land on it.

 _That’ll make the kid happy,_ he muses, seeing his little ward still gazing at Cholganna and its forests and oceans.

As they hover over the planet, he turns on a holomap and searches for a secluded place to land. He sees a large expanse of forest on the other side of Cholganna. In the center is an open field and a small lake. The closest settlement is about a three-day speeder ride away.

“Hey,” he says to the child, pointing at the map. “This looks like a good place to land. What do you think?”

The child’s eyes are filled with fascination as he takes in the holomap. A smile tugs on the bounty hunter’s lips when the kid reaches for the projection as if it is some kind of bubble to pop.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he says under his breath.

He sets the coordinates and puts his working-engine on maximum speed. The sooner he lands, the sooner he can fix his ship. He can feel the _Crest_ favor its right side, and he counters this by shifting his controls to the left, to even out his and the kid’s flight—not that it will make their trip more pleasant. It has been a curse so far.

Leaving the Chol Nebulae behind him, he flies to the other side of the lush planet. His mind forms a plan on what to do once they settle down there. They—or more like, he—will need to see what is wrong with his disabled engine. It should not be too hard to fix. At least the engine had not exploded or anything. What he would not do for Kuiil’s help now.

But after he finishes with the _Crest_ . . . what is he supposed to do? Hiding and laying low are easy things to accomplish once he found a place to do actually it, and he already has a planet chosen. What then? Sit and wait to see if other bounty hunters come looking for the child? Cleaning his weapons, maintaining his armor, smoothing out the kinks in his ship, keeping up in his training—all of these duties can occupy him while he protects the kid. But they can only interest him for so long before he loses his mind with boredom.

He is not so sure what he should do with himself while he waits for the heat to die down. He had never allowed time to linger in between his bounties. He does not like to waste time, especially when there are credits to be made and foundlings to help. Rest makes skills rusty. It slows down reflexes and gives the mind too much time to wander. He always preferred to keep busy. And now, it seems he will have more time on his hands than he has in years.

The last event that caused him to rest was when he received a severe injury to the abdomen. Even now he can still feel the vibroblade slash a painful path across his stomach. His opponent had hoped to slice through to his major organs, but the Mandalorian had been quicker, despite the fact that he still got injured. But he always reminds himself that it could have been worse. For weeks he was laid up in his ship on Nevarro, healing and gathering his strength.

Beside him, he can hear the child move from his seat. Then suddenly, his green ears pop up in front of him. The bounty hunter casts a quick glance downward to where the kid is now sitting in his lap. He cannot help but give a half-smile. The baby alien is turning his head left and right, taking in a closer view of Cholganna. His long ears twitch once, then twice, as if he hears something other than the _Crest_ ’s purring.

The kid says something, followed by an ‘oh!’ He then points to their right.

At first, the Mandalorian thinks nothing of it, but the child keeps pointing after a few more seconds. Curious himself, he tilts his head to the right.

Nothing. All he sees are stars and the darkness of space.

“What are you looking at?”

The child gurgles out an answer, turning his little body to the right. He lowers his raised arm and places a small hand on the bounty hunter’s forearm.

“Is that so?” he asks, not bothering to stop the sarcasm from dripping from his tone. Why does he even bother asking the kid questions? All he gets in return is baby-talk.

An alarm beeps. Tearing his attention away from child, he checks his panel. A ship, silver and sleeker than the _Crest_ , is approaching. And it is coming from the very same direction that the kid had been pointing at.

_I don’t believe in coincidences._

His hands itch to activate his ship’s weapons. He cannot take any chances if bounty hunters are onboard. All he needs to do is angle the _Crest_ just right, and the unknown vessel will be within firing range.

Before he can do anything, the _Crest_ is hailed by the other ship. He feels himself freeze. People in his line of work usually shoot first then talk. Maybe it is not a bounty hunter ship after all.

 _“This is_ Starlight _, hailing an unidentified ship near Cholganna. Do you need any assistance? Please respond.”_

He feels his eyebrows lift. The voice belongs to a woman. Her accent is elegant, sophisticated. He does not think he has heard that particular accent before, and he has been to numerous planets over the years. Her words seem to roll off her tongue like a gurgling brook, and she sounds genuine in her offer.

But he needs to keep his wits about him, so he ignores her and focuses on flying the _Crest_. He is approaching his desired coordinates on Cholganna, and he will soon be making preparations to penetrate the atmosphere.

He hears a click then babbling from the child. He looks down and realizes that his ward had pressed a button, the one that opens the communication channels. The kid says something else, and the Mandalorian tries to shoo him away with a gloved hand.

“Don’t do that.”

In response, the alien waves a small hand at him and even giggles. Annoyed, the man quickly picks up the kid and sets him down in the passenger seat. He does not need the child to make friends with a stranger, especially at this time.

 _“This is_ Starlight _. Do you need help?”_

Hearing the woman’s voice again makes him want to groan. He forgot to turn off the comms channel. She heard all that, and he grinds his teeth. He should not be drawing unwanted attention to his ship, but the kid already has. He needs to patch up this situation before it gets bigger.

So, he grits out, “I can handle things just fine, _Starlight_.”

 _“Well, I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t look like that from where I am.”_ He can hear her take a deep breath before adding, _“A part of your ship is on fire.”_

“What?”

He checks his controls. His left engine had burst into flames, just like the woman said.

 _Why didn’t I know that sooner?_ he asks himself. But then he remembers that, earlier, he had manually silenced his alarms. He thought his engine was out of commission, so alarms would not have been necessary to keep on. But from the looks of it, his engine had been working this entire time. Something, like space debris, must have been caught inside, preventing the engine from working. Now, it was on fire because it had been overheated as it tried to do its job.

A curse in Mando’a escapes him. It was stupid of him to turn off his alarms, and his ship is paying for it. He needs to land before the damage gets any worse.

 _“Mandalorian,”_ the woman says, her elegant voice commanding, and he feels himself stiffen. _“I highly recommend finding refuge on the planet below.”_

Again, he ignores her. She must have heard him curse in his Tribe's tongue. It will only be a matter of minutes before she figures out who he is and what he has done—and _who_ he has on board with him.

He switches his alarms back on. They ring in his ears, and he remembers why he had turned them off in the first place. But suddenly, the alarms are silenced. He cocks an eyebrow. His dashboard alerts him that the fire is out. How is that even possible? His left engine is still on, and the fire would have normally continued to blaze, cooking that part of the ship until it exploded.

Not having time to think deeper on this, he turns off his left engine. There is no need to for it to keep running and causing further damage to it.

The comms crackle to life again, and he kicks himself for not closing the channels. The woman in the other ship says, _“You have a child onboard. You need to put the youngling’s safety first.”_

Her voice is gentle in her argument, and he does not know whether to admire her for thinking of the kid’s well-being or to be suspicious of her concern. He casts a glance at the baby alien. His ward is looking at him with big, pleading eyes, a smile spreading across his green lips.

_“Please land your ship on Cholganna.”_

The bounty hunter turns away from the kid and shakes his head, as if doing so will drive out the mysterious woman’s concern. With an even tone, he says through the comms, “I’m already set to land there, Lady. Continue on with your business, _Starlight_.”

With a flick of his wrist he switches off communication with her. He is surprised he was so . . . formal with her. Considering the bad luck that has been smashing into him today, he would have normally barked at her and told her to get lost. Perhaps her sophisticated accent and caring tone had impressed him more than he realized.

Glad to be free of the woman and her fancy ship, the Mandalorian guides the _Crest_ even closer to Cholganna. The planet’s surface is vast, stretching across his front window. He enters the atmosphere. It is somewhat tricky since he has only one engine operational, but Cholganna’s gravity helps him, welcoming him to its luscious rainforests. His hands on the controls pull to the left, trying to even out his flying.

One of his vicinity sensors blinks. He sees that _Starlight_ is following him. He feels his lips form into a frown, and he huffs. What is she thinking? Maybe she is a bounty hunter after all. He turns on the comms channel again and forces himself not to lash out at her.

“Stop following me, _Starlight_. I can handle everything.”

 _“You need to accept help when it’s offered to you,”_ she retaliates before closing the channel.

Knowing he cannot do anything at the moment to stop her, his shoulders tense, and his frown deepens.

“I don’t need help from a stranger,” he mutters then curses for the umpteenth time in Mando’a. He has been doing that a lot lately. At least, since he rescued the kid.

Beside him, he can hear the child laugh as if he is enthusiastic to not only land on the planet but to also meet someone new. The man rolls his eyes at the kid’s glee. Going to a planet that his gut has been warning him about is not something to be thrilled about. And having to deal with a stubborn woman who will not take ‘no’ for an answer is even less exciting.

“Both are the last things that I want,” he grumbles. “Or need.”


	3. Shades of Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn't get the Star Wars franchise for Christmas, which means I still don't own it. Writing this story is just a Christmas wish for me!

Chapter III: Shades of Green

_Location: Cholganna_

He lands the _Crest_ on Cholganna’s surface, in the very spot he had selected moments ago. The emerald jungle surrounds a large open field, and he notices that the grass is not long and tangled up together. Perhaps herbivores frequent this area for the pasture to look so well-trimmed. That is a good fact to know—hunting will be easy for him, if he chooses to stay.

A few meters away from where he stations his ship is a [small lake](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190147564583/chapter-iii-shades-of-green-from-my-weapon-my). The water shimmers, reflecting the light blue sky. He wonders if there are any creatures living inside the body of water. The lake can also provide another source of food.

Making a mental note to do more research on Cholganna once he is settled, the bounty hunter turns off his engines. He hears a faint purring in the distance and turns to his right. About half a klick away is the stubborn woman’s ship, _Starlight_. She parked almost on the other side of the small lake, and he stops himself from feeling grateful to her for giving him and his ship some space.

He glares at the silver vessel. Like the lake, _Starlight_ shimmers in the sun, its sleek wings elegant and regal. The ship is a work of art— _that_ , he will allow himself to admit. But inside is a woman who needs to learn the lesson of minding her own business.

From his seat he can see her ship’s loading ramp lower and a small figure emerging onto the luscious green field. Well, he needs to get this confrontation over with. So far, she does not look like a threat to him or the child. Even though his gut is unusually quiet, it does not stop his mind from making plans, both defensive and offensive. He had learned a long time ago that looks—especially from the female sex—can be deceiving.

With a grunt he swivels his pilot chair around. He pats the blaster secured to the right side of his belt. Feeling the weapon against his gloved hand brings him reassurance and confidence. If the woman does not leave him alone willingly, then he just may have to use force—lethal force if necessary.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the kid move to the edge of his seat, ready to jump onto the floor.

“Stay here,” he orders the green alien.

The child looks up to him with disappointment in his eyes. His long, pointy ears twitch upward as if they are reaching for the ceiling. A tiny pout emerges on his lips, but the Mandalorian stubbornly turns away. He will _not_ get sucked into those sad eyes and quivering frown.

“Stay _here_ ,” he repeats, his voice firmer than before.

He exits the cockpit and climbs down the ladder that leads to the rest of his ship. Dangling beside the ladder is his Amban sniper rifle. He grabs it without a second thought and slings it over a shoulder. Perhaps he is being too cautious bringing out a weapon that has an ability to vaporize a threat, but he can always use the taser function from the rifle’s double-pronged end. Nevertheless, he is not taking any chances.

With determined steps he walks over to the raised loading ramp. He presses a button on his left gauntlet, commanding his ship to lower the heavy ramp. In less than two seconds the ramp hisses, letting out steam, as it slowly comes down. He shrugs off his rifle and holds it in front of him.

If he wanted to, he could have blasted ‘Starlight’ from the sky or from where she had landed her ship. But he had chosen not to. No, he wants to give her the chance to walk away. Hopefully, she will recognize his generous gesture and leave him and the kid alone.

 _No good deed goes unpunished,_ he thinks as his grip on the rifle tightens. He raises it up, and his muscles shiver, excited to possibly delve into another scuffle. Since he left Nevarro, he could feel himself grow restless. He still has more fight in him, ready to be unleashed.

The ramp hits the thick grass with a soft thud. A breeze streams by, tugging at his cloak. His body already feels warmer, and even from underneath his helmet he can taste the humidity in the air.

With cautious steps and with his rifle pointing forward, he strides down the metal incline, searching for ‘Starlight.’ To his surprise, she is only a short distance away from him. She must have been walking faster than he had anticipated to have gotten so close to the _Crest_ —or, more than likely, she hurried her pace after he left the cockpit.

The instant that his boots touch the soft, ankle-high field, he comes to a halt. As the woman walks closer, he takes the time to survey her. She does not seem very tall, and her figure is petite. He guesses she is roughly half a foot shorter than he is. She is dressed in various [shades of green](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190147753178/chapter-iii-shades-of-green-from-my-weapon-my), and he wonders if she had planned her wardrobe beforehand. She can easily blend in with the jungle and disappear in it if she wanted to. But he gives his mind a mental shake. There is no way she could have changed so quickly. And besides, why would she? It is just a coincidence that she matches nature’s dominant color.

 _But I don’t believe in coincidences,_ he reminds himself.

About two meters away from him, ‘Starlight’ stops walking, therefore pulling him out of his reverie. Closer than she was before, the bounty hunter now has the luxury of studying her.

She is wearing a fancy wrap around her head, which covers her hair and half of her face. Her green head-wrap is striped with black, and its material gives off a slight shimmer whenever she moves. Draping from the top of her wrap are flat, circular ornaments. To him, they look like small coins with a gold figure stamped in the dark middle of each one. But as the bounty hunter uses his helmet to zoom his vision in closer, he realizes that the figure on each coin is actually the profile of a humanoid, a woman—perhaps a queen or important historical individual. The women and the rims around the coins are all gold, which stand out against the dark background of the flat ornaments. The coins are connected by gold loops and are edged by tiny gold balls dangling against Starlight’s smooth forehead.

All he can see are her eyes, brown and alert; her dark eyebrows and lashes; a little black mole below her right eye; a small portion of her forehead; and the top bridge of her nose. From what he can tell, her skin is blemish-free and tanned, meaning she must come from a sunny planet. He will not be surprised if her homeworld is mostly covered by desert.

Using his helmet to zoom out his vision, he takes in the rest of the woman standing before him. She is wearing a long tunic, moss green and velvety. Her long sleeves reach her wrists, and the cuffs have a festive-looking pattern designed in various colors. The same pattern appears at the front of her tunic, stretching in a vertical rectangle from her collar down to her stomach. Wrapped across her chest as a sash is a long scarf, although it is more like a thin shawl. Its color is emerald rather than moss-green, and it matches her head-wrap. The scarf is gathered to the side and tied in a knot at the woman’s right hip.

Although her tunic clings to her upper body, enhancing a pleasant figure, it flares out at her waist like a flowy skirt and reaches an inch or two past her knees. And underneath her tunic, the Mandalorian can see that the woman has donned a thin-looking set of trousers. Also green, they stop right above her ankles. He notices that her trousers do not cling to her legs like a second skin; instead, they are loose, allowing the wearer “to breathe” so to speak. This makes him believe even more that Starlight must come from a sandy desert or humid climate.

He tilts his head just a centimeter and looks down. The woman is wearing slippers, but they leave her feet exposed and vulnerable to outside elements. Though her tannish skin appears to be smooth, even across her ankles and the topside of her feet, he doubts her skin will remain so in this jungle environment.

Her slippers are green and have gold flowers designed across them. He stops himself from scoffing at them. Boots are the most reliable footwear. Compared to them, the woman’s slippers look dainty, showy, and impractical. But he figures that her homeworld is not dominated by a sandy desert. Most inhabitants with that particular geography are known to wear knee-high boots so the sand will have a harder time getting inside their shoes.

Overall, the fabrics of Starlight’s clothing look expensive, and almost regal. Around her wrists are bracelets designed in yellow and black gold. Most of her fingers are claimed by unique-looking rings. She has to come from a wealthy family. Perhaps her father runs a successful business, or her mother is an influential diplomat in the New Republic. Judging from her fancy clothes, down to her dainty slippers, and up to her lavish jewelry, he is willing to bet that this woman is a spoiled-rotten brat.

But there is something about her that does not add up: her belt. Instead of decorating her already expensive clothing or enhancing her attractive figure, the belt is plain and weathered. This practical accessory is something that a bounty hunter like himself or a soldier would wear. Made of brown leather that looks as if it has seen better days, the belt wraps around her thin waist. It has two pouches connected to it, and he wonders what Starlight keeps inside them. In the belt’s center is a small rectangular plate, and the metal must have been gold at one time. Now, it has faded into a light yellow, almost silver-color.

What attracts his attention is the weapon dangling from the left side of her belt: a vibrorapier. The blade is polished steel, and its hilt is intricate and refined, made of light bronze and dusty silver. From what he can remember, a rapier is a type of melee similar to any kind of vibroblade. But what makes it different is that it has a longer and thinner blade. It is well-balanced and completely silent due to a special design that diminishes the ultrasonic pitch that most vibroweapons have. He had heard that the people who choose to carry this type of blade praise it for its stealth and boast of its excellence and grace during combat.

Why would the woman standing before him, dressed like some kind of rich heiress, have a vibrorapier? She would not carry it if she does not know how to use it—no one in their right mind would. A rapier is not bulky like a vibrosword or common like a vibrodagger. No, this weapon requires discipline, agility, training, and speed—meaning Starlight is not one to be underestimated.

 _She’s dangerous,_ he concludes, raising his rifle just a little higher. _I liked it better when I thought she was a spoiled rich girl._

At his movement the woman’s eyes widen in alarm. In response, she lifts her hands up just slightly in front of her, as if to placate him. Although he is relieved that she did not reach for her vibrorapier, her sign of peace does not sway him from withdrawing his rifle from their meeting.

But something in the atmosphere shifts. It feels as if the planet’s humidity thickens, yet somehow the moisturized air does not seep further into his clothes and make his body sweat even more. For some reason he now wants to lower his weapon and strap it across his shoulders. It is as if Starlight emanates around her a soothing aura, one that he surprisingly does not want to disturb. He senses that she does not mean him any harm, so he decides to lower his rifle, pointing its end at the damp grass instead of her heart.

“What do you want?” he demands, his tone cold and unwelcoming.

Starlight chuckles, which makes his eyes widen. That is not the reaction he was expecting, not from a woman facing a Mandalorian bounty hunter with an Amban sniper rifle in his hands. He can see her cheeks scrunch up, and there is amusement in her gaze. Again, not what he had been expecting.

_She’s either crazy or stupid for not taking this seriously._

“I thought it was obvious,” she replies, her accent elegant and light. “I want to help.”

“I don’t need any.”

He watches her gaze shift behind him towards the _Crest_ , and he straightens up his stance and broadens his shoulders.

“How damaged is your ship?” Starlight asks, clearly ignoring his desire for her to high-tail out of here.

Annoyed, he snaps, “It doesn’t matter. I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can, but I am still offering you my assistance. I may not have much,” she says and turns to point at her silver ship, “but I would like to help in any way that I can.”

With her back slightly to him, he can see a black braid hanging down Starlight’s back. Her hair is so long that it swings past her head-wrap and stops at her slim waistline. When she faces him again, he notices how genuine her eyes look as she stares at him. Perhaps she is not a threat after all. But he still needs her to go away and mind her own business. He has never had the desire to make friends, and it will not start now.

“I don’t need help, Starlight,” he insists, irritation dripping from his tone as he says her name. “I said that I can handle it. It’s time for you to leave.”

Behind him he hears a quiet scuffling. Not wanting to leave the woman unwatched for too long, he spares a quick glance over his shoulder. The moment his gaze lands on the child another wave of annoyance hits him hard, and he barely hears a gasp escape Starlight. Does that kid ever listen to him? He should have locked him up in one of the _Crest_ ’s storage compartments.

“I thought I told you to stay inside,” he says to his ward. Why did he even bother?

The green alien waddles down the loading ramp. He does not even stop next to the bounty hunter or hide behind his guardian’s leg. Instead, the kid moves past him and shuffles towards the woman!

With his muscles tensing and the grip on his rifle tightening, the Mandalorian follows the child’s movements. He turns his body as his ward hobbles closer to Starlight and stands before her. The baby alien tilts his head upwards, and his pointy ears twitch. He giggles at the woman, and the man can only imagine how big the kid’s eyes are getting.

_That little traitor._

The bounty hunter focuses on Starlight. Her cheeks are lifted up again, and he wonders what kind of a smile is on her lips. And are her brown eyes watering? Nah, he must be seeing things. Her gaze is just reflecting the sun’s rays, right?

Slowly, the woman kneels in front of the child. The kid raises his little hands to her, and she reaches for him. Her jewelry catches in the sunshine and sparkles with her movements. The Mandalorian stiffens, his reflexes ready to fire at Starlight if the need arises. His finger brushes against his rifle’s trigger. He figures it will take the woman three seconds to grab the child, turn herself around, and run for her ship. But it will take _him_ a second and a half to raise his weapon, aim, and shoot.

Suspicious of the woman dressed in various shades of green, he watches as she stretches her hands to the kid’s. Her hands and slender fingers seem huge compared to the green alien’s. Time seems to slow down as the bounty hunter witnesses their hands close the distance and finally meet in an innocent connection.

* * *

Starlight's Attire:

Starlight's Vibrorapier & Belt:


	4. "I Mean You No Harm"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge "Thank you!" to everyone for the kudos and to those who left comments! These things have encouraged me in ways you would not believe!

Chapter IV: "I Mean You No Harm"

The child laughs, his pointed ears moving up and down faster than the bounty hunter has ever seen them do before. It is a good thing that he never takes his helmet off; otherwise, the woman would notice his mouth drop and his eyes widen like a startled Bantha. He cannot help but stare in confusion at this . . . strange scene.

Slowly, Starlight and the kid break their connection and drop their hands. He hears her whisper something to the green alien, and he cannot make it out. Her voice was so quiet that he is not even sure if she had spoken in Galactic Basic or in another language altogether. His finger once again brushes over his sniper rifle’s trigger.

Before he demands to know just what the woman said, she lifts her gaze from the child and focuses her dark eyes on him.

“Mandalorian, the youngling is special.”

“I know,” he replies, forcing his tone to sound normal. He remembers quite clearly how the kid reached out a hand and was somehow able to lift up a female Mudhorn with an invisible strength. He had never seen anything like that before in his entire life. He is still in awe whenever he remembers that impossible moment back on Arvala-7.

“May I ask . . .” The woman in green hesitates, and he detects a slight quiver in her polished accent. “How did you end up with him?”

His first response lies along the lines of ‘none of your business,’ but there is a flicker of . . . something across her face—or what he can see of it—that makes him swallow his retort. Is that interest or fear in the form of crinkles spreading across her forehead?

“I just did,” he flatly answers her.

Figuring Starlight does not seem like a threat to either him or his ward, the bounty hunter grabs the strap of his rifle and slings his weapon across his shoulders. It is time to break up the kid’s one-alien-welcoming-committee, and he needs free hands to do that. So, he walks over to where Starlight is still kneeling in front of the child. She tilts her head up, and the gold ornaments of her green head-wrap jingle quietly. They shine in the sun, but he ignores how the light gives the gold a soft glow. Instead, he picks up the tiny alien and sets him behind his leg. He can feel the kid’s three-fingered hand grip the side of his boot.

“You should leave, Starlight.”

“What's your name? And the youngling’s?” she asks, standing up.

 _Didn’t she hear me?_ he wonders. He can feel his hand quiver, anxious to yank out his blaster, point it at her, and make it clear that what he said was far from being a friendly suggestion. He eyes her with an even gaze, despite the fact that she cannot see it. She lifts up a dark eyebrow, pressing him for an answer.

_I don’t have time for this._

Ignoring her, like she had with him, he turns around and ascends the loading ramp of [his ship](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190242802643/chapter-iv-i-mean-you-no-harm-from-my-weapon). His fingers reach towards his left gauntlet so he can press a button on it to raise the ramp, but he hears light footsteps following him. It irks him that Starlight has the audacity to invite herself onto the _Crest_ without his permission.

He is about to scold her off his ship when he feels a hand grab his right arm directly above his elbow. With a stronger grip than he had expected from her, Starlight tugs at his arm, forcing him to stop walking and turn around to face her. Though her hand is firm, there is a gentleness about her touch that makes him almost welcome it. No one has dared to lay a hand on him like that, and with such tenderness, since his parents. Yet her fingers have a firm grip around his bicep, and he feels himself stiffen. He does not react by yanking his arm out of reach. No, he cannot let her know how much her gesture bothers him.

“My name is Talia,” she offers. “And I mean you no harm.”

Tilting his head to the side, he searches her eyes. Again, he sees sincerity and kindness. The name fits her, but he will not admit that to her. Instead, he holds his tongue and simply nods at her. He then walks away from the shorter woman. He can feel her fingers slide against the fabric of his clothes as she releases him.

“It’s rude not to tell me your name,” he hears her call out to him.

Once again, he pays no attention to her and shrugs off the belt of his rifle. After he hangs it beside the ladder that leads to the cockpit, he approaches one of his ship’s storage compartments. He needs to find the case where his tools are so he can fix the _Crest_ ’s left engine and leave this cursed planet.

Since entering the Cholganna System he has been forced into one problem after the other. First, the thick nebulae covering the planet that contained asteroids and space debris—which damaged one of his engines. Then, his ship caught on fire, forcing him to land on a planet that his gut decides to warn him about at the last minute. He still is not sure if it is Cholganna’s creatures, terrain, or nebulae that has been bothering him at the back of his mind. And to top it all, he cannot persuade Starlight, a stubborn woman, to leave him and the child alone. So far, Cholganna has proven to be bad luck for him, and he cannot wait to shake off any more misfortune heading his way.

 _Where did I put my toolbox?_ He opens a closet and rummages through it. Then he remembers that he had stashed away the metal case in a compartment underneath the ship’s floorboards. Quickly, he shuts the closet door and heads to where he stores his prized arsenal.

When he stands about a foot in front of that storeroom, he drops to one knee and removes the floorboards. He can feel his cloak drape across his shoulders as he works. Deep inside the compartment is his case full of tools and gadgets.

“Why don’t you take off your helmet so we can have a decent conversation?” the persistent woman asks him.

He wants to scoff at her question. He is a Mandalorian: they do not remove their helmets for anyone, even if that person asks nicely and says ‘please.’ He glances at her, wondering if she is in earnest. Starlight—whom he refuses to call by her actual name because if he does, then he will not be maintaining a distance between them—has her hands on her hips. Beside her, the child is clinging to her loose-fitted trousers with one hand while his other is fingering the gold flowers on her slippers in awe. It is as if the kid has never seen anything so delicate and shiny before in all his fifty years.

The Mandalorian rolls his eyes—either at the woman’s question or the baby alien’s fascination, he does not know which. And he does not care at the moment.

“I don’t take my helmet off,” he snaps.

Satisfied with his answer, he reaches into the compartment for his toolbox. It is buried so deep that his head disappears into the _Crest_ ’s basement as he retrieves it. Successfully, his gloved fingers wrap around the metal case.

“According to Mandalorian custom,” he hears Starlight say, “it is not a crime to take off your helmet.”

He hears more than feels his teeth grind against each other. In a huff he pulls himself from bending into the floor compartment. With his toolbox in hand, he stands up and walks over to his ship’s ladder.

“It’s a matter of honor,” he states, knowing she will not fully understand his Mandalorian customs—few people, aliens and humanoids alike, hardly ever do.

He ascends the ladder, careful to balance the case with one hand as he uses the other to climb. He reaches the cockpit and steps inside briefly. With a flick of his wrist he flips a lever that opens up a door that leads to the roof of the _Crest_. Then he maneuvers to the side and climbs another ladder.

In less than thirty seconds he reaches the top and sets the toolbox on the ship’s roof. The sun shines down on him, and the _Crest_ is radiating its heat in hot waves. He can already feel himself sweat more underneath his Beskar armor. The humidity in the air seems to evaporate in the sun’s rays as he pulls himself up onto the roof. He then retrieves the case and strides over to the ship’s left engine. With a grunt he pulls himself up on top of the engine, its circular structure making it hard to balance. He straddles it, sets the toolbox behind him, and opens a compartment at the edge of the engine’s covering. Inside is a cable with a hook.

 _If only I had a jet-pack,_ he inwardly grumbles. _It would’ve made this easier._

Not wasting any more time, he secures the hook to his belt. The cable is about three feet in length, just long enough to suspend him in front of the engine so he can examine it.

He turns himself around and slips off the engine. Cholganna’s gravity wants to take him down to the grassy field, but the cable stops that from happening. Instead, he hovers in front of his damaged engine, feeling a gust of wind pull at his cloak. The fabric flaps in the air as he sets his feet at the edge of the engine. He then grabs the edge of the engine’s border with his hands and pulls himself forward. Leaning into the mouth of the engine, he has his helmet zoom in, studying the extent of the damage.

“You must be from one of those fanatical Clans,” a thoughtful voice reaches him from below, and the temptation to groan in exasperation is overwhelming. The woman must see that he is _extremely_ busy at the moment.

“How do you know about Mandalorian ways?” he barks at her, not caring if his tone reveals how protective he is of his adoptive culture.

“I just do.”

He huffs at her response. It seems he is not the only one with secrets on Cholganna. But the haughtiness of her response annoys him even further than he already is towards her. He is on the verge of lashing out at Starlight until he finds a piece of space debris buried deep inside the engine’s thrusters. The piece of metal had prevented the thrusters from turning. Removing it should not be too hard. Perhaps he will not need his tools after all.

Carefully, he inserts his hand inside, and his gloved fingers brush against the garbage. He manages to wrap his fingers around it and tries to wrench it out, but the debris has lodged itself tightly—and even stubbornly—inside. At least the small fire that had begun while he was in space did not seem to have caused any serious damage to the engine.

“You do know,” the woman remarks below him, “Mandalorians aren’t Tusken Raiders.”

Her comment is unexpected, and he stops trying to yank the debris from his thrusters. Comparing the two cultures confuses him, and he jerks himself to the side, angling his head down so he can get a glimpse of her. Below, he sees Starlight looking up at him. Tucked safely in her arms is the child who is reaching for the gold ornaments on her head-wrap.

“What?” he asks before he can stop himself.

She blinks up at him, and he can recognize amusement in her eyes even from where he is, dangling nearly fifteen feet above her.

“Tusken Raiders are forbidden to remove their masks, except during special occasions,” she supplies. “They can be exiled or killed for taking their masks off.”

“I didn’t know that,” he says before continuing with his task.

As he successfully pulls out the space debris from his engine’s thrusters, he can hear Starlight almost snort out, “For a bounty hunter you don’t seem to get around much.”

Any kind of victory-like feeling that he had in solving his engine problem vanishes in an instant. His hand tightens around the debris so hard that he can feel its sharp edges through his leather gloves. He pushes off the engine, and as he suspends in the air, he sends the woman a glare. Despite the fact that she cannot see it, it satisfies him to know that his scowl has the ability to skewer through a person without mercy.

“I’ve been to Tatooine before,” he grits out.

He drops the space debris and almost wishes that it would land on top of Starlight and make a permanent tear through her fancy clothes. But of course, the warped metal does not even come close to touching the woman. In fact, the discarded debris catches the attention of the child, who squirms just a little in Starlight’s arms.

Not caring that his movements are ungraceful, the Mandalorian scrambles up the engine’s exterior. Once he reaches the top, he unfastens the hook from his belt and stashes the cable inside its designated compartment. Next, he slides down the engine’s circular side and lands on the _Crest_ ’s roof. He is reaching for his toolbox when he hears Starlight mutter under her breath, “Who hasn’t been to Tatooine? But you could have fooled me.”

His muscles tense at her words, and he swings around to face her. Standing twenty feet above the petite woman, he says with the authority that he feels as he towers over her, “It’s time for you to leave.”

A smirk forms on his lips as his voice, strong and imposing, carries across the small lake. He stands proudly when he watches Starlight set the child on the green field, as if she is surrendering the infant to him. The kid waddles over to the discarded garbage and snatches it up, fascinated by the jagged metal.

But the instant the green alien is on the ground, Starlight straightens her posture, meets his gaze with a stubborn one of her own, and crosses her arms in front of her. The rings and bracelets adorning her hands flash in the sun.

“You can’t order me around, bounty hunter.”

He mimics her stance even though he knows it is a childish thing to do. And is that amusement he sees when she raises her eyebrows after _he_ crosses his arms? Unsure, he has his helmet zoom in on her face. However, by the time he has a clear view of her, Starlight’s brows were already lowered back to normal.

“I never told you I am one,” he responds. It is a weak deflection, and he knows it. But he wants to keep as much of his anonymity for as long as he can.

Glad that he has not zoomed out his vision, he is able to see Starlight cock an eyebrow at him, and he suddenly finds himself wanting to know what shade of brown her eyes are.

“It’s not hard to figure it out,” she flatly replies. With a sigh, she drops her arms to her side. Her polished accent sounds downcast as she says, “I told you my name. Why can’t you tell me yours? Or, the youngling’s at least.”

He releases a huff, his warm breath filling his helmet for a few seconds. “It’s none of your business, Starlight. Now leave.” He zooms his helmet’s vision back to normal, picks up his toolbox, and walks across the roof back to the door leading into the cockpit.

“I thought we settled that you can’t tell me what to do,” she shoots back at him. He can imagine the stubborn creases forming on her smooth forehead.

“You settled it. I haven’t.”

Curious to know how she took his brisk answers, he sends her a glance. She has lifted her chin at him defiantly, and even from this distance he can see determination flashing in her eyes. He figures that, from the way she has given orders, she is more than likely a member of the aristocracy. Or worse yet, royalty—which is all he needs.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mandalorian.”

“Fine,” he snaps back. “Stay here in this stank jungle.”

He grabs his metal case and descends the ladder. Before he closes the hatch, he hears Starlight raise her voice and ask, “Who said I won’t leave when you do?”

Climbing down the ladder, he swings himself into the cockpit. After he sets the toolbox in the child’s designated seat, he turns on the ship’s computer. He runs diagnostics on the _Crest_ , and relief fills him when the computer notifies him that his left engine is officially operational. He was right in thinking that the fire from earlier had not damaged it like he had feared. Now, he can escape Cholganna anytime he wants.

Satisfied, he seizes his toolbox and exits the cockpit. As he climbs down the ladder into the main section of his ship, he can hear Starlight talking to the child. Her tone is gentle, and even to the Mandalorian’s ears her accent sounds sweet, almost motherly. Does she have children of her own? Or a family that she can return to? Again, he notices that some of Starlight’s words roll off her tongue in an elegant way, which makes him wonder about her homeworld. Does everyone talk like she does?

He reaches the bottom of the ladder and lands on the ship’s floor with a loud thud. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Starlight at the mouth of the _Crest_. She is holding the kid and had taken away the debris from him. The green infant is reaching for the sharp metal, but the woman will not let him have it.

 _Good,_ the bounty hunter cannot stop himself from thinking. All he needs is for the kid to get a cut inside his tiny mouth.

He stores his toolbox back inside the floor compartment and covers the opening with the floorboards. Then he walks over to Starlight and the child. A soft laugh escapes the woman when the kid pouts at her, sad that she will not let him have the space debris.

“I’ll take that,” he says, reaching for the piece of garbage himself. He is not sure if Starlight will yield if the child keeps on sulking. Even he has found himself wanting to give in to the baby alien just so the pouting can stop.

Turning just slightly, Starlight hands him the debris. Her fingers brush against his, and he feels a calming sensation transfer from her. It warms his hand and travels up his arm. He does not register that his gloved hand wraps around the warped metal because he finds himself staring at her, trying to figure her out. The fondness in her gaze when she looks at the child is still there as she focuses on him. There is just something about this woman that puzzles him. How can she be both frustrating and calming? Her hands gentle yet strong? Why is she so curious about the kid? And about him?

A roar from the jungle breaks their visual connection. Automatically his hand goes to his blaster, and Starlight turns towards the ship’s opening. With cautious steps, he walks down the ramp and scans his surroundings. He wanders away from the _Crest_ towards the rainforest, his feet sinking into the green field. Behind him, he can hear Starlight following, the kid still in her arms and speaking gibberish. Another roar resonates from the thick jungle, and a large flock of birds frantically bolt into the sapphire sky, screeching in fear.

Not encouraged by this, the Mandalorian retrieves his blaster and points it in front of him, prepared for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, “Chapter 8: Redemption” of “The Mandalorian” revealed a lot about the Tribe’s way of life. I say the Tribe’s and not the Mandalorians’ in general because there is no record (that I can find) that the Tribe members’ way of life is the same as the majority of other Mandalorians’ (and I have done my research on the planet Mandalore, its people and customs, and history of Mandalorians). Jon Favreau and whoever else writes the show have been taking some liberties on the Mandalorian culture. While there are some that I like, I admit there are others that I am not a fan of.
> 
> So, I am drifting a little from the show by making some alterations:  
> 1.) I am naming the Mandalorian’s tribe Clan Ordo, after Canderous Ordo from “Knights of the Old Republic” and “KOTOR: The Sith Lords.” Canderous is an interesting character and is probably not considered canon anymore (Boo, Disney!). If you want to know more about him, then I recommend the “Legends” section on Wookiepedia.  
> 2.) In here, Mandalorians CAN take off their helmets; it is not a crime or a dishonorable act. However, I am making it that Clan Ordo is very zealous about maintaining anonymity, a trait that separates them from most clans. And, Mandalorians from Clan Ordo can share their names (and even their faces) but only to certain people AND under special circumstances.


	5. Battle of Wills, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! I appreciate it so very much. They make me excited and impatient to share more about my story! Keep them coming!
> 
> This chapter was longer than I had expected, so I had to cut it. Expect the other half to be up very soon!

Chapter V: Battle of Wills, Part I

He scans the [general area](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190242995493/chapter-v-battle-of-wills-part-i-from-my) where he had heard the roar, his blaster still raised in front of him. His helmet zooms in and initiates the infrared vision. Everything turns into shades of dark gray. Patches of orange and yellow sprinkle the perimeter of the jungle, but he cannot pinpoint a creature large enough to have unleashed such a vicious roar. He knows he should have researched Cholganna’s native inhabitants earlier.

Now a few meters away from the _Crest_ , he slowly turns his body to the left, still searching the landscape. More wildlife of various shapes and sizes are highlighted like fire burning deep within the vast jungle. Insects buzz around him so loud it seems his helmet does nothing to muffle their shrill hum. He can feel the humidity in the atmosphere dampen his skin and clothes. A trickle of sweat rolls off his neck and makes a path down his clammy back.

After completing a full circle, the bounty hunter finds himself staring in the same direction where he believed the roar had come from. Still nothing.

“Cholganna is one extreme place to hide,” Starlight comments.

He zooms out and returns his helmet’s vision back to normal. Afterwards, he lowers his weapon and glances at the woman decked in expensive hues of green. She is standing beside him, her gaze also scanning their surroundings. With one arm she holds the child, who is surprisingly quiet at the moment. The Mandalorian notices that Starlight’s right hand is gripping the vibrorapier hanging at her left hip, and the corner of his mouth raises just a centimeter. Like him, she is ready for anything— _that_ , he admits to himself, is something he can admire about her. But now is not the moment to think like this.

“Who says I’m hiding?” he asks, almost wincing at how challenging he sounds when only seconds ago he felt his annoyance towards her dwindle a few notches.

With a glance she replies, “You did.”

Taken aback, he snaps, “I said nothing of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to,” Starlight mock-whispers to him, her dark eyes shimmering with amusement. If the jungle did not pose as a threat—and if she was not so bothersome—he would have laughed at her playful comment. But in this instance, he can feel his gloved hand tighten around his blaster in a death-grip.

As he holsters his weapon, he stares at the enigmatic woman. She drops her hand from fiddling with her rapier’s ornate hilt and then looks down at the child in her arms. He can see compassion pour from her gaze while the baby alien nestles himself against her. His ward’s long, pointy ears are a paler shade of green than the rest of her garments. But they look quite the pair, all mysterious and green. There is just something about them both that makes the bounty hunter feel that these two, although different, complement each other. But why?

“It’s a lovely planet,” Starlight remarks as if she is simply making pleasant conversation with a member of high society instead of someone belonging to the riff-raff of the galaxy. “I mean, considering it’s the home of the Nexu.”

The unfamiliar word jerks him out of his reverie. “The what?”

She turns to him, her dark brows furrowed in disbelief. Even the child looks at him as if he knew what this Nexu is while his protector did not.

“The Nexu,” Starlight prompts as if repeating the word will make him know what she is talking about.

 _Well, it doesn’t,_ he gruffly reasons.

“It’s a large creature, a predator, that lives here on Cholganna. It’s—” she cuts herself off and sighs. “I think I should show you instead.”

With graceful movements, Starlight lowers herself to one knee so she can set the kid on the ankle-high grass. The setting sun catches the gold ornaments on her head-wrap, making them shimmer and giving her a faded halo. Her green sash and weapon sway in the light wind as she stands up. She then reaches for the right side of her waist, and the Mandalorian grabs her wrist, thinking she is about to retrieve her vibrorapier.

His hold on her is firm yet not hard enough to leave bruises. Although she does not tense or try to shake off his grip, Starlight cocks an eyebrow at him. He holds her gaze, not backing down. However, from the tilt of her head and the reprimand in her eyes, he knows she has no intention of yielding either.

 _But she will,_ he proudly thinks. Not many can undergo both a battle of wills and a staring contest with a man wearing a Beskar-made helmet.

“Have no fear, bounty hunter,” she reassures him, calmness painting her accent. “I wasn’t going for my blade.” When he says nothing, she adds, “You can reach inside my pouch if it’ll make you feel better.”

If he was with another Guild member, he would have done what she had suggested. But because this is Starlight, a woman who has not posed as a threat, he cannot find it within himself to invade her person. She, with all her elegant clothes and gentle manner towards the child, deserves respect—and just an inch of trust on his part, which does not irk him as much as it would have earlier.

He gives her a nod and releases his grip on her wrist. Intrigue fills him when she returns his nod with a slow, dignified one of her own, as if she is pardoning him from his rough gesture. Her response was almost . . . worthy of a Mandalorian.

Again, Starlight reaches for the pouch. Her fingers disappear for only a moment before pulling out a small device. At first, he cannot see what is it because the object fits inside the palm of her hand. But with the flick of her wrist, Starlight opens up her hand, revealing a circular device. It looks like a flat plate with grill marks embedded in it. A thick, bronze rim surrounds the plate, and three curved arms are attached to it. He figures that this device is too delicate-looking to be an explosive and too thin to be a detonator.

“Never seen anything like that before,” he remarks.

“It’s a type of holoprojector called an Imagecaster,” she answers. “It was old when I found it, but I’ve had it updated throughout the years.”

Starlight presses the center of the Imagecaster with her thumb. Suddenly, a projection twice the size of the device itself is activated. He notes that the image is not the usual hue of blue like most projections; instead, it displays other colors.

“This is a [Nexu](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190243034428/chapter-v-battle-of-wills-part-i-from-my),” she whispers, her gaze focused on the creature that she had not taken the time to describe.

The animal, he assesses, looks feline in its general appearance. It has a white furry coat with black stripes, but the fur does not reach the creature’s long tail. Like a rat, the Nexu’s appendage is completely bald; however, this animal’s tail is split into two less than halfway its length. With such a unique tail, the hunter side of him wonders if it is used for snatching its prey or for holding onto something for support, like tree branches.

Along the feline’s back are spikey quills that must discourage other predators from attacking it from above. Its build appears to be light, which means the Nexu are more than likely agile creatures with quick reflexes. But there does not seem to be much meat on it, and he will not be surprised if a hard kick will send the animal into throes of pain.

His gaze then is drawn to the wide, toothy grin plastered across the Nexu’s face. Its teeth look sharp and menacing, and he does not envy whoever comes between this creature and its prey. The Nexu has three large claws—more like talons—on each foot. He feels his eyes widen at how big they are because they look as if they can slice a humanoid in half with ease.

But what the Mandalorian finds especially eerie about the ferocious feline are its eyes. There are four of them, all red in color. He figures that nothing will be able to easily escape a Nexu’s attention.

It dawns on him that it was the Nexu, along with the Chol Nebulae above, is what his gut had been warning him about. He just did not remember both factors of the Cholganna System in time.

“The Nexu are over three feet tall and nearly fifteen feet long,” Starlight informs him. “And their second set of eyes can see in infrared wavelengths.”

 _So, that’s why their eyes are red,_ he hums to himself. He then tries to imagine the dimensions with the animal’s other physical characteristics.

“I know those creatures,” he flatly says in a disinterested tone—even though that is the last thing he feels as he continues to study the Nexu. “I just didn’t know its name.”

Automatically, he searches for the child. He is relieved when he sees his ward hobbling towards the small lake, away from the jungle. Not wanting to risk the baby alien’s safety, the bounty hunter scans the thick wilderness around them with more precision. He has no desire to run into a Nexu anytime soon, not if he can help it.

“Really?” He hears Starlight ask. “Then, what do you call them?”

Annoyance towards the spoiled woman begins to stir within him. Not only is he checking their surroundings, but he is also watching the child while trying to keep Starlight from getting whatever it is that she is really after—which he still does not know.

With his attention split into three, he half-heartedly answers, “Mean feline with lots of eyes and a rat-like tail.”

“That’s a mouthful,” she scoffs. “Saying ‘Nexu’ is definitely easier.”

His annoyance increases, almost reaching his limit. He snaps his head in her direction and glares at her, saying, “And you just so happened to have an image of a Nexu on your holoprojector?”

“I was heading to Cholganna the same time as you were,” she defends, her eyes challenging him. She turns off her Imagecaster and stuffs it back into the pouch connected to her leather belt. “While I was in hyperspace, I was doing my research on the creatures living here.”

In a huff, he breaks eye-contact and moves away from her. He sees that the child is playing with some tall reeds growing from the lake.

“What are you running from, Mandalorian?” Her voice is soft yet curious, and he turns to find Starlight walking closer. She stands before him, the lake at her back. Her eyes stare up at him, and he notices how dark her brows are, complementing her thick lashes.

Why is she so curious? He has done his best to keep her at arm’s length, but she is refusing to cooperate. If she will only take off that blasted veil! _Then_ , he can have an easier time reading her. But he is not sure why her covered face bothers him so much. After all, his Tribe consists of members who wear their helmets all day and every day, even the younglings. Maybe it is because his fellow Mandalorians paint their voices with a certain character trait, which define their personalities. But here, with Starlight, it is hard to figure out who she is. Her tone ranges from various emotions, and it is adorned by a unique accent, one that rolls off her tongue in a pleasant sort of way.

“I’m more interested in what you’re running from, Lady,” he throws at her.

The huff he receives from her satisfies him. Glad that he reached a touchy subject for her, he stares her down, hoping this time that his helmet and his intimidating presence will finally urge her to answer him. He presses further.

“A woman dressed like you, all fancy and expensive, coming to a jungle planet with Nexu crawling around? You’re running from something, too. Why?”

She sets her hands on her hips. “That’s personal.”

“So’s mine,” he snaps.

“A bounty hunter with a personal life,” she scoffs. “I didn’t think you guys had one. Where did you come from?”

Wanting the woman to stop peppering him with questions, he decides to answer her. Hopefully, it will give her something to chew on and leave him alone long enough so he can keep a better look out for the Nexu.

“Nevarro.”

With that, he walks past her and moves closer to the child who is dipping his three-fingered hands into the water. He then studies the jungle across the small lake. The setting sun turns the sky from an ashen blue to a blushing yellow.

“Of course,” he hears Starlight whisper right behind him. “Nevarro is almost considered the HQ for the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.”

He can now sense her standing beside him, and he notices that she allows at least two feet of space between them. At least she knows not to invade his personal space—which he finds himself feeling grateful for.

“What Clan are you a part of?”

Nothing stops him from rolling his eyes. Knowing his idea failed miserably, he decides that he should turn the tables on her. It is _her_ time to feel pestered and uncomfortable.

“That accent of yours is different,” he sharply throws at her. “Don’t think I’ve heard it before. Where’s it from?”

She shrugs, as if his tone and question had zero effect on her. And are her eyes sparkling? She should _not_ be finding his attempt at an interrogation amusing.

“I’m from a planet that has been forgotten over the ages, especially of late.”

He blinks at her. Although he does not say anything, he wonders why Starlight is being so mysterious and answering in riddles. But then again, he has not been very forthcoming with her either.

“Onderon.”

“What?”

“That’s my homeworld. Onderon,” she repeats, her posture straightening up just a little more.

* * *

Talia's Imagecaster:

Nexu:


	6. Battle of Wills, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I apologize for not posting earlier today. I just had to polish it from grammatical errors and such. Enjoy!

Chapter VI: Battle of Wills, Part II

“Didn’t your planet get blown up by the Empire?” he asks, slightly confused.

“No, that’s Alderaan. I’m from Onderon,” Starlight repeats with a sigh as if he was not the only one that she has corrected.

In a flash, he remembers what he knows about Onderon. It is a decent-sized, temperate planet with mountains, jungles, and plains. One of eight planets in the Japrael system, Starlight’s homeworld is known for its vicious beasts and is a part of the Lesser Lantillian Trade Route. Onderon’s capital is Iziz, and the entire planet is ruled by an old monarchy—and he would be willing to bet that Starlight is either a member of the aristocracy or a distant relation to the royal family.

Onderon had gone through a civil war over thirty years ago during the Clone War. The old monarch had been usurped from the throne and sent into hiding. The skirmish had taken nearly two years to clear up, until the Empire took over. Since then, Onderon’s monarchy was like most: afraid to challenge its overseers. He wonders what kind of life Starlight must have had living under the thumb of the Empire, especially if she came from Onderon’s elite.

“Onderon hasn’t been ‘forgotten’ like you think,” he says.

Starlight lifts an eyebrow at him. “If you’re referring to Saw Gerrera, he is not the only notable figure from my planet.”

His ears detect bitterness and annoyance from the woman wearing green. He watches as she crosses her arms.

“I was talking about your Civil War,” he mentions.

“It’s not the first one my planet has had,” she remarks. “And it might not be the last. But Onderon’s history is old and proud. We haven’t been appreciated or noticed until the Clone War and Gerrera.”

The bounty hunter has to stop himself from smirking. The planet itself has not been known for anything special, like key exports. Instead, high technology and basic weapons are two major imports. If he remembers correctly, he believes that the Onderonians pride themselves in their quality fabrics and ornate jewelry. No wonder Starlight’s attire looks so grand.

But the name Saw Gerrera does penetrate his memory. So, that radical Rebel had been from Onderon, too. He had heard stories about that other man’s terrorist-like accomplishments. Yet from what he was aware of, Gerrera had not fought on Onderon itself during the Rebellion. Of course, he knew that there were Rebel fighters on the planet, but the main war centered on politics, making him almost sure that Starlight had been a part of it. He has already had a preview of her wit, commanding voice, and evasive answers that most politicians boast of.

What clearly comes to his mind about Onderon is the population. Humanoids dominate the planet, along with Ithorians, Devaronians, Twi’leks, and several other alien races. What he remembers specifically is that the humanoid people also consist of . . . Mandalorians.

“You have two moons there, right?” he double-checks.

“Four, actually.”

“And one of them is called Dxun,” he states more than asks.

She eyes him warily. “Yes. Why?”

Dxun _is_ familiar to him, but only because of the tales that a few of his Tribe members tell. About three hundred years ago, Clan Ordo had originally lived on Dxun. Their reasons for leaving the Onderonian moon had to do with cultural differences—something about losing their Mandalorian roots and customs. Clan Ordo decided to return to their ancestors’ homeworld, Mandalore. While there, they were determined to settle and re-establish the Mandalorian way of life with complete and utter zeal. In the last fifty years or so, a majority of Clan Ordo’s members joined Death Watch, a group that had saved his life when he was a child.

“Do you know Dxun?” Starlight asks. He can detect hope in her voice.

“Only a little.”

Something catches his eye behind her. He looks over her shoulder and sees [the child](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190243103443/chapter-vi-battle-of-wills-part-ii-from-my) putting some kind of amphibious creature in his mouth. Without a second thought, he rushes past Starlight so he can tell his ward to spit it out. But before he can even open his mouth, the green alien swallows his impromptu lunch whole. Then, he turns around with happy eyes, his pointy ears twitching with glee. The Mandalorian sighs, knowing there is nothing he can do about the kid eating whatever it was. He just hopes the amphibian was not poisonous.

A soft giggle reaches his ears. He does not have to turn around to know that it came from Starlight. Another roar, quieter than the one he heard minutes ago, grabs his attention. He needs to get closer to the jungle.

“I didn’t take you for a carnivore,” he hears Starlight say to the child.

“Watch him, will you?” the bounty hunter orders.

Not waiting for her to argue, he marches towards the perimeter of the jungle. He stands about ten meters away. Quickly, he turns on his helmet’s infrared vision and studies the thick tree line. There is still nothing, that he can see, large enough to be identified as a Nexu. Though Cholganna may be known for this vicious feline, he believes he and the child are momentarily safe from running into one.

_Speaking of the kid._

He glances back at Starlight and his ward. They are playing with one another. Well, not really playing. The two green figures are sitting together; Starlight is kneeling on the soft grass, her body bent towards the child. He can hear her talking with the alien who then touches her face. Even from this distance, the bounty hunter can see the grin that spreads across the child’s lips. The Onderonian releases a pleasant laugh before rising to her feet. She motions for the kid to follow her, and they wander alongside the lake.

Seeing this makes the Mandalorian tense up—she could be using his distance from them to kidnap the kid. But then he notices Starlight leading the child to the side of the lake closer to where he is scanning the jungle’s tree line. He figures this is her way of letting him know that she has no intention of kidnapping the green baby—which relieves him. However, he does not feel comfortable at the idea of Starlight bringing his ward so near the jungle and its unknown threats. Despite the fact that he believes she can take care of herself, especially with that vibrorapier of hers, he does not want her to place the kid in unnecessary danger.

Although he currently is satisfied that he and the kid—and even Starlight— are secure, he thinks he should take his ward and leave. After all, his ship is fixed, and there is nothing that can stop him. Besides, Cholganna is not as “welcoming” as he had thought it would be, especially with the Nexu wandering around. He is just thankful that they have not run into any so far and that none of those creatures has decided to pay them a visit. Right now, he does not want to push his luck.

His staring catches Starlight’s attention when she looks his way. He motions for her and the kid to stop so he can meet them where they are. Thankfully, she understands and nods at him. But the child has other ideas.

Faster than the bounty hunter has ever seen him move, the infant shuffles across the grassy plain in his protector’s direction. Starlight has to almost jog in order to catch up. And since he does not want the kid to get any closer to the jungle, he decides to meet him and the Onderonian half-way.

With the child between them, the man says to Starlight, “I’m heading out.”

“But you just got here.”

“Cholganna is giving me the creeps,” he bluntly states.

Her eyebrows shoot upwards. “I didn’t take you as the easily spooked type.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

She glances down at the child. “How did you end up with him?”

Knowing she will continue to question him about the kid’s well-being if she is kept in the dark worrying about him, he decides to give her just a little bit of information, hoping it will satisfy her.

“He fell into my lap, unexpectedly.”

“And what do you plan to do with him?”

 _Nothing satisfies her,_ he inwardly grumbles. _I don’t know why I bother._

“None of your business,” he snaps.

Again, she focuses on the infant, and he follows suite. The pointy-eared alien is looking up at both of them, his small head turning left and right as if he is witnessing a disagreement between parents. The comparison rubs the bounty hunter the wrong way.

“He’s a rare species,” Starlight comments, kneeling once again in front of the child. “Does he have a name?”

“Kid,” he replies before thinking, and she scoffs at his answer. He then hears her mutter something about men not having any imagination to which he actually takes offense to. Not having an imagination means there is no creativity in getting out of sticky situations, and he has gotten out of his fair share of brawls due to an innovative mind and ingenious planning.

“He needs a name,” she insists as she runs a finger across one of the kid’s ears. Then, she looks up at him. “I would like your name, too.”

It is a desperate attempt to know more about him, and they both know it. But the Mandalorian says nothing. He has not given his name nor heard it spoken since before he swore himself to his Tribe.

Starlight stands and meets his gaze. “I would be honored if you would allow me to take the youngling off your hands.”

Automatically, he reaches for his blaster. His gloved hand wraps around it, ready to yank it out. But the woman does not even flinch. Instead, she raises her hands and tells him again that she means him no harm.

“You don’t know how special he is, Mandalorian.”

“And you do?” he accuses.

“More than you,” she answers, dropping her hands to her sides. “It’s obvious that you didn’t plan on keeping the youngling this long. I know you’re hiding from something, or someone. I just don’t know if it’s because of your bounty hunter job or something else entirely. But I do know that keeping the child will give you unwelcome attention. He will be a liability to you,” she says. “His species alone will get you into trouble.”

_So, she knows more about the kid than she’s letting on._

“Then what alien is he?” he challenges.

The woman hesitates for a moment before admitting, “I honestly don’t know the name or his homeworld.”

A scoff escapes his lips. _Never mind. She’s just as much in the dark as I am._

“But he’s from a very rare species,” she argues, no doubt trying to make some leeway with him. “His kind have been known to be . . . gifted. So much so that he can be a target, especially since he’s so young.”

“And why are you interested in him?” he throws at her.

“I . . . I have my reasons,” she softly answers.

“That’s not good enough,” he snaps, his hand still gripping his holstered weapon. “As far as I know, you can be just be another person who wants him for personal gain.”

Her covered head tilts at this, and he briefly closes his eyes, kicking himself. He had said too much.

“So, that’s why you have him. You saved his life.”

Her eyes scan him, and he does not know why she even tries to figure him out. He is wearing a Beskar helmet for Mandalore’s sake. It is not as if she can read his expression through the metal.

“You want to keep the youngling safe, Mandalorian. As do I,” she solemnly vows. “I give you my word that I mean him no harm.”

“And your word means nothing to me.”

“True. But if I wanted to hurt him, wouldn’t I have done it by now?”

Yes, she most definitely could have. Starlight has had chances to whip out her vibrorapier and strike him down when his back was turned. Once he was eliminated, nothing could have stopped her from whisking the child away. But Starlight has not even lifted a finger towards violence. Despite how much he wants to be free of her, he has to admit that she has been honorable and sincere.

He shakes his head. “What are _you_ going to do with him then?”

Hope gleams in her eyes. “Protect him. Help him understand how special he is. Or, at least, try to.”

“How can you know he’s special?” he demands, suspicion coloring his tone. His hand is still clutching his blaster’s grip. “Have you seen what he’s done? Was it with someone else? Or . . . are you like him?”

Again, she hesitates, and time seems to slow. His patience is being sucked up in her vacuum of mystery. He has to stop himself from shaking the answers and her intentions out of her.

“Yes,” she finally says. “I’ve seen his gift before. And I believe I can help him.”

He notices Starlight did not answer all of his questions. Instead, she evaded them, especially the last one. She _has_ to be an Onderonian politician. It seems he has truly met someone with as sharp a wit and as stubborn a will as him.

“Who are you, really?” he challenges as he releases his hold on his weapon. “You say you’re Talia from Onderon. You’re familiar with the kid, his species, his talent. And,” he tilts his head at her, “you seem to know a lot about Mandalorians.”

A frustrated sigh reaches his ears, and her gaze echoes intense annoyance. Finally, he has gotten on _her_ nerves.

_Good. Now she knows what it feels like._

“Because I’m from Onderon I know Mandalorians since many of them are living on Dxun. Onderonians and Mandalorians coexist together, and they have for centuries—millenniums actually.”

 _And that’s why she seems to have some form of Mandalorian honor about her,_ he realizes.

He watches as Starlight again crosses her arms in front of her. Her expensive bracelets jingle at the movement. “I seem to be more Mandalorian than you at the moment for knowing more about their history and culture.”

“Watch it, Lady,” he growls. His hand once again settles on his holstered blaster. He can feel his reflexes itching to pull it out and point it at her. “Don’t think you know me. You’ll only know what _I_ allow you to.”

Starlight lowers her challenging gaze, thoroughly reprimanded. “That was presumptuous of me. Forgive me,” she implores, bowing her head at him. Then, with a tired sigh, she asks, “How about you take off your helmet so we can have a civilized conversation face-to-face? It’s getting hard to figure you out when you’re hiding underneath it. I’ll even remove my head-wrap.”

 _If she’s aware of my people’s customs,_ he thinks, irritated, _then she should know better than to ask me this for a second time. But I am interested to know what she looks like underneath her veil._ Her offer tempts him, just half a centimeter.

“Like I said before,” he says. “I don’t take my helmet off.”

“And like _I_ said before,” she retaliates, sounding just as annoyed as he is, “it’s not a crime. Nor is it dishonorable. Maybe in war-time, depending on the Clan.”

“Well, for my Tribe, taking it off _does_ bring dishonor. I’ll never be able to put it back on again.”

“Tribe?” she repeats as she tilts her head at him. Curiosity spreads across her forehead and dark eyes. And again, he inwardly kicks himself. How is it that one conversation with her can make him so distracted that he is not careful to watch his tongue? “You didn’t say ‘Clan,’” she observes. “Very interesting. There are only a handful of Mandalorians who use that term. And most of them are considered fanatical indeed.”

_I’ve had enough._

“Listen, Lady—”

“Talia.”

“I’m done here. The kid stays with me, and if you think you can—”

Suddenly, two Nexu burst forth from the jungle. Both he and Talia spin themselves in that direction, and he notices that one of the Nexu is smaller and the other larger.

As one, he and Talia look at each other then down. But the child is no longer standing between them. They frantically search for the kid and at the same time spot him about five meters away, right between them and the Nexu. During their heated argument the child had slipped their attention and wandered away from them, closer to the jungle.

Within seconds, the vicious felines focus on the kid excitedly, as if they had just found an easy snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question 01: How old do you figure the Mandalorian (Din Djarin) to be? Any rough estimates?
> 
> Question 02: We all know "The Mandalorian" takes place after the fall of the Galactic Empire and before the rise of the First Order. But how many years do you think have passed since the Battle of Endor to where "The Mandalorian's" first episode starts?
> 
> I would love to hear your ideas and match them with my own!


	7. Double Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for commenting and leaving Kudos! And thank you to those who shared with me their answers to my questions from the previous chapter. My own answers are in the Notes down below after the chapter.
> 
> Also, I just now embedded links to my posted photos on my (experimental) Tumblr page in this chapter and in all of my previous chapters. Enjoy!

Chapter VII: Double Trouble

As the rat-like tails of the [Nexu](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190281423683/chapter-vii-double-trouble-from-my-weapon-my) sway left and right, their claws scrape at the grassy field. Drool drips from the smaller beast’s toothy smile while the larger one lowers itself into a crouch. The Nexu playfully snap at each other and then focus their blood-red eyes on the child again, who has not moved an inch since the animals’ abrupt entrance.

From the bounty hunter’s guess, the Nexu are mates. Judging from the smaller feline’s boney body, he deduces that one is a female who has not had a satisfying meal in quite a long time. She impatiently mewls at her mate and, without warning, charges for the green infant. Right behind her is the male.

Like lightning, the Mandalorian dashes for the kid and yanks out his blaster. His heart pounds in his chest as he sends an array of shots at the Nexu. But the beasts are so fast that they evade them. As if in slow motion he watches the Nexu jump and twist their bodies, expertly avoiding his attempt to eliminate them. They land on their feet with a thud, the fading sunlight making their white fur shimmer like moonlight shining on a river.

He is within reach of the green alien when the mates stop concentrating their many eyes on his ward. Instead, they roar in anger and dart for him—and Talia.

In a split second, he spares the Onderonian a glance: she had run with him towards the child, her vibrorapier in her hand. The melee’s sharp blade catches the sunset’s glow and shines as if it is a flash of lightning.

He turns his attention forward and meets the gaze of the female Nexu. She ignores the kid completely and charges towards the bounty hunter. Her bare teeth grow larger with every step she takes. Saliva drips onto the ground, watering the soft field with a milky foam.

To fend her off he fires his blaster at her several times, but she leaps into the air straight for him, twisting her body to avoid his attack. Time slows down again as his eyes follow his shots. He sees one graze the female’s shoulder, and a pinch of disappointment hits him. He had been aiming for her chest. If her reflexes were not so sharp, he is sure he would have hit his target—or at least severely wounded her.

Still in the air, with her body twisting, the Nexu swipes her naked tail at him.

He dodges her scissor-like appendage, but it smacks his right hand hard, sending his blaster flying twenty feet away from him on his left. His hand throbs as she lands in front of him, close enough to take a vicious swing at him. He jerks himself to his left, rolls on the ground to avoid her sharp claws, and springs to his feet with just as much speed and agility as the feline. He takes no more than three steps towards his blaster when the Nexu roars and dashes right between him and his weapon. She snaps at him, her body crouched and shaking with anticipation. Her tail dances behind her while her four, red eyes visually eat him up with a hunger, he suspects, that rivals her stomach.

They stare each other down, giving him a small window of opportunity to look past the Nexu and see how the child and Talia are faring.

Talia had somehow managed to undo the green scarf that acted like a sash and had wrapped it around her. The scarf spreads across her back, and it is wide enough to act as a makeshift pouch. Inside is the child, his little back pressing against hers. As Talia moves, the bounty hunter can see that she had tied her scarf’s ends in front of her, keeping his ward safely tucked away from danger. How in the name of Mandalore had she been able to do that in such a short amount of time? And while fending off the larger Nexu, too?

The male snaps at Talia and swipes a very large paw in her direction. She raises her vibrorapier and meets the beast’s attack. Her weapon flickers in the fading light as it smoothly cuts off the Nexu’s talons. The feline roars and swings his tail at her. Talia jumps out of the way, and the Mandalorian watches as the child’s eyes widen at the sudden movement. Then, the infant raises his three-fingered hand, his eyes widening even more. His tiny mouth forms an “o” as he points directly at him.

The man blinks, not sure what the kid is trying to tell him. The corner of his eye catches a sudden movement, and instinct warns him to drop to the ground. He complies without a second thought.

Crouched on the ankle-high grass, he lifts his head an inch to see above him. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, slow and steady. The female Nexu’s paw casts over him, and the seconds tick by at a slug’s pace as he takes in how thick and sharp her talons are. He can only imagine what her claws will do to him if they ever come into contact with his flesh.

The instant the paw passes over him, he scrambles away from the female Nexu as fast as he can. He presses a button on his right gauntlet, releasing a stream of glorious fire. His aim is true as the flames come in contact with the beast. She screams so loudly his eardrums ache. The imminent taste of victory emboldens him to step closer as the fire continues to pour out from his gauntlet. He watches with satisfaction as the Nexu’s white fur spreads the hot blaze from her head down to her shoulders. The fire licks up her black stripes, and even from underneath his helmet he can smell burnt flesh and smoke.

Another high-pitched roar escapes the female as she staggers away, trying to be rid of him and his arson attack. She turns around, blinded by the flames, and her tail smacks into him. He is thrown into the air and crashes onto the ground, his stream of fire terminated. His side pulses with pain, and he cannot stop the groan that escapes his lips. He expects he will see a colorful set of bruises tomorrow painted across his abdomen.

Ignoring his discomfort, he rises to his feet and looks for the female beast. She is yowling and throws herself on the cool grass, writhing at her fiery agony. The flames begin to slowly dissipate, which gives him enough time to check up on Talia and the child.

The male Nexu is pacing in front of the woman in green—more like limping. His tail wildly slashes across the humid air, and the animal roars at Talia, his intimidating teeth gnashing together. The Mandalorian can see the Nexu’s white fur is no longer decorated with black stripes but also with blue ones.

 _Odd,_ he thinks until he notices that Talia’s rapier is stained with the same blue color dripping down the feline’s body. Instead of red blood running throughout their veins, it dawns on him that the Nexu have blue-tinted blood—an interesting discovery indeed. The newly blue stripes added across the male Nexu are deep incisions given to him by Talia and her melee weapon.

Respect for the Onderonian, and her skill with a rapier, stirs within him. He runs to the on-going battle. His blaster is within reach, just two meters away from him. But an ear-piercing scream stops his feet and rattles his bones. His head snaps towards the sound made by the injured female who is currently dragging her disfigured and burnt body closer to her mate. Her roar is answered by the male, which draws the bounty hunter’s attention back to him and Talia.

Within seconds the Nexu charges for the woman, who had been distracted by the female’s roar. The Mandalorian opens his mouth to warn her, to tell her to turn around, but the male beast is faster. He smacks Talia aside with his thick tail as if she was a nuisance and continues to head for his mate.

Talia’s body flies into the air, and the child tumbles out of his makeshift pouch. While he rolls onto the field, she slams into it hard. The kid wobbles towards her, slightly dazed, but Talia does not move.

Heavy breathing reaches the bounty hunter’s ears. Instead of running to comfort or protect his mate, the male Nexu charges for him, and he presses his gauntlet’s button to release another burst of fire. But nothing happens. A pathetic flame spurts out before his gauntlet buzzes then malfunctions completely. The female’s tail, when she had smacked his blaster out of his hand, must have damaged it. He had only one chance to unleash a stream of fire, and that chance has already been spent.

Cursing in Mando’a, he leaps to his right, hoping to avoid clashing with the male. While in the air, the Nexu uses its tail to strike him. The rat-like appendage slams into his already aching side, sending him in the opposite direction. He twists his body and turns his fall into an ungraceful roll. The soft grass does nothing to cushion his landing.

Quickly, he jumps to his feet and takes a defensive stance. He glances around and finds that he is now stationed between the Nexu mates. Behind him the female is whining; he can hear her scuffling to her feet, trying to get up. In front of him, the male glares at him then releases a livid roar. He notices that Talia and the child are on his left, about a few meters away.

With his blaster out of reach and his gauntlet of fire rendered useless, he has only a handful of tricks left to defend himself and his companions. So, he retrieves his vibroblade from inside his right boot. The knife is small, but when activated, it has proven to be deadly to many of his opponents.

 _Let’s add Nexu to that list,_ he thinks. Determination to eliminate his current threat energizes him, and he pushes aside any aches and pains his body is feeling.

Once he activates the vibroblade he aims for the male Nexu and throws it. The weapon summersaults into the air like lightning as it catches the sun’s rays. His aim is high, and the knife plunges into the beast’s neck. But the vibroblade looks so small compared to the large build of the male Nexu. The feline bellows at the pain and tries to swipe the knife out of him. Blue blood as dark as an ocean’s depths begins to drip down the Nexu’s snowy fur and spills onto the ground. He swipes a paw at his own neck, a poor attempt to free itself of the steel weapon.

Using the Nexu’s temporary distraction as an advantage, the bounty hunter presses a button on his left gauntlet. A metal cable swooshes out, and its hooked end buries itself deep into the male’s shoulder.

At this new attack the animal screeches and takes a step back, though his focus is still set on removing the vibroblade. He continues to use one of his claws to get rid of the knife. While in the effort of doing so, he is actually ripping into his body. With each attempt, his own talons tear into muscle, unleashing a stream of blue blood and an onslaught of shrieks.

Not wasting any time, the Mandalorian runs towards the Nexu, who has completely ignored the hooked end of the cable embedded in its shoulder. He sprints up the Nexu’s right leg; his boots dig into bushy fur as he climbs up the mountain of muscle. Maintaining his balance, he suddenly veers to his left and wraps the metal cable around the beast’s neck. Then, he allows Cholganna’s gravity to take him to the ground, and he can feel his cloak flap in the humid air. As he lands on his feet, he tugs the cable and moves to his right, pulling as hard as he can.

Taken off-guard, the Nexu smashes into the field. He chokes out a scream and yanks itself away from the bounty hunter. Except, the feline moves to the left, only tightening the cable even more around its neck. The man plants his boots firmly in the grass and pulls his end of the deathtrap in the opposite direction.

A squeal comes from the beast as it struggles to shake off the cable. The powerful movements jerk the Mandalorian off-balance, sending him to his knees. He tries to get to his feet, but the Nexu starts to pull away again with more vigor.

Not being able to compete against the feline’s strength, he soon finds himself being dragged across the open plain. Despite his Beskar armor, he can feel every bump and rock hiding underneath the grassy surface. The field is moist, splashing water droplets across his helmet. Dirt sprays all over him as it is kicked up from the Nexu’s paws, its talons digging into the earth.

The animal moves to their left, still trying to free itself of the cable-like noose. A sharp pain resonates in the bounty hunter’s left knee, and he groans. He must have hit a rock—more like a miniature boulder from the intensity of the ache.

_Oh, that’s not good._

Suddenly, the Nexu stops. The man ignores his knee and scrambles to his feet. He grits his teeth as he gives the cable a hard tug. Met with a half-hearted resistance from the beast, he spares himself a glance downward, checking for any major injuries. He finds that he is covered in rich dirt, grass, and glistening blue blood. Next, he surveys his vicious opponent. He sees that his knife, along with the Nexu’s self-inflicted wounds, is releasing more blood from the exhausted animal. With each tug at the metal cable, he notices that the feline’s resistance is growing weaker by the second.

Relief fills the Mandalorian. From the way the cable quivers in his hands, he can feel the beast’s strength diminishing from its excessive loss of blood. So, he tugs at the cable even harder. His muscles ache and protest, but he keeps on pulling. He _cannot_ show any sign of weakness or fatigue.

Meanwhile, the Nexu is on the ground choking and foaming at the mouth. He crawls away from its conqueror, towards his mate who is slowly recovering from her burn wounds. Yet the bounty hunter gives another hard wrench at the cable, his arms and legs burning. His body is slick with sweat and Nexu blood, but he refuses to let go.

Seconds pass, feeling more like hours. He resists the Nexu’s feeble attempt to reunite with its mate, and success is within his reach. He watches as the beast gasps and slumps onto the ground in defeat, a mere three feet away from its female. Though the Nexu stops fighting, he is still breathing heavily.

Automatically, the Mandalorian disconnects his gauntlet from the cable and races towards his conquest, ignoring his throbbing knee. He reaches for his vibroblade buried in the male’s neck and yanks it out. The beast does not even flinch as he plunges his knife back into it.

This time, he aims for the tender spot between the Nexu’s neck and shoulder blade. He buries the knife deep into the creature’s cavity, and the feline groans. Blood seeps into the man’s gloves, and he can feel the point of his vibroblade as if it is an extension of himself. The sharp weapon sears through rubbery organs of the beast with ease. He twists his wrist with a grunt. He feels the Nexu heave a deep breath before going still—permanently.

A sigh of relief escapes the bounty hunter. Exhaustion wants to overpower him, and he has to fight the temptation to simply collapse atop the dead Nexu in a heap of weary muscles and Beskar armor. But he summons the strength to pull out his drenched hand and vibroblade, and then he deactivates the small weapon. He spares a glance at the female. Her body is still, and he is thankful that she had succumbed to her injuries. He does not think he can handle combating her again.

With heavy steps, he backs away from the bloody and foamy mess of the Nexu and turns around. He spots the child standing about two meters behind him. His body relaxes as he sees that his ward seems unharmed, and he closes the distance between himself and the baby alien.

When he crouches in front of the kid, he slides his knife inside his right boot. The youngling looks up at him with dark, wide eyes. His green pointy ears are twitching back and forth like always, and a half-smile tugs at the corner of the Mandalorian’s lips.

“Hey there,” he softly says to the child. “We made it.”

He is about to search for Talia when he hears the female Nexu roar. Shocked that the beast is still alive, the bounty hunter snaps to attention. Even though he does not know how he is going to eliminate the half-burnt threat, he turns around anyways, ready to face the female.

His mind is on the verge of taking in the situation when he is suddenly pushed aside. With a surprising amount of force, he feels a strong arm and shoulder elbow him hard, right into his aching side.

For the umpteenth time that day, time seems to slow down. As he falls to the ground, he sees Talia with her vibrorapier in hand, standing between the child and the Nexu. The creature’s face is half-charred from the fire; her once white fur is now gone, scorched beyond healing. Black flesh blisters in the fading light, and even from this distance the bounty hunter can smell overcooked meat.

His body crashes again into the solid earth. He shakes his head to gather his bearings and tries to get to his feet. But his bones, his muscles, his entire body quiver at the mere thought of moving. With a frustrated groan he forces himself to his hands and knees. He can feel his cloak hang over his shoulder, and he shakes it over his back.

Craning his neck up, he watches in horror as the Nexu’s burnt paw swipes at Talia. The force of the hit sends the Onderonian’s melee weapon in the air, and the rapier lands within his reach. He inwardly commends Talia for not screaming out in pain, but she crumbles to the ground. He can see her hands clutching her side, and the female Nexu roars in victory. Then the feline’s bloody-red eyes blink at the woman in green then at the child, as if she is not sure which one to exact vengeance on first. She licks her lips while drool trickles onto the field.

Taking the Nexu’s indecisiveness as an advantage, the Mandalorian staggers to his feet. His body protests, throbbing from being tossed and dragged for what feels like hours. He snatches Talia’s discarded rapier and uses it to steady himself. He does not think he has much more fight left inside him, but he cannot give up now. His companions are on the verge of becoming dinner. He needs to protect them for as long as he can—even if he passes out from trying.

As he takes a heavy step forward, he notices that the child also moves closer to the growling Nexu. With wide eyes he sees the kid raise a three-fingered hand, and for some reason, the Nexu jerks back as if she has been slapped. Something shifts in the air. Her red eyes blink rapidly, and she shakes her burnt head with such a violence that the bounty hunter expects her neck to snap.

He can hear her erratic breathing, but she begins to calm down. Her breaths are quiet and slow. He is startled to hear a whine emerge from the Nexu; it reminds him of a pet being reprimanded by its master. The female then releases a cry so mournful it almost moves him.

_Almost._

He gathers what strength and stubbornness he has left and limps out of the Nexu’s peripheral vision. His gloved hand tightly clutches Talia’s vibrorapier, and he quickens his pace. The child is still distracting the surviving feline, giving him a window of opportunity.

His heart pounds into his chest as he runs toward the Nexu. He raises the rapier and throws it with all his might. He holds his breath as it soars in the air, straight for the beast. The weapon buries itself deep into the Nexu’s neck, and he releases his breath.

Blood as blue as a midnight sky sprays from the lethal wound, coating the child and Talia—even reaching him where he is standing. The Nexu does not roar or squeal, its vocal cords severed beyond repair. She slumps to the ground right in front of the kid and a very still Talia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that "The Mandalorian" takes place 5 years after the Battle of Endor, and I am thrilled to have learned from two commentators that my guess is correct. As to Din Djarin's age, I personally think he is in his early 40s, so in my story I am making him 42. Here is my reasoning:
> 
> In the flashbacks, young Din appears to be between the ages 8 and 10. Since it's easier to do figures with 5's or 10's, I rounded his age to be 10. I figure Din was taken in by Death Watch after the first year of the Clone Wars--meaning the war will end two years later and Din would be 12 by that time. So, add his age of 12 years to (about) 20 years after Ep. III, 5 years between Eps. IV-VI, and 5 years after Endor, and it all equals to 42 years.
> 
> Part of my reasoning for making him 42 is because Pedro Pascal is about 44 right now--and to me, he looks his age. I just made him slightly younger by shaving off two years for him. ;)
> 
> Also, Din has been called "old man" by Toro Calican in "Chapter 5: The Gunslinger." A young man in his mid-twenties would refer to someone as old as Din as an "old man." Plus, in "Chapter 6: The Prisoner," Din refers to his bounty hunter days with his former gang as happening "a long time ago." The way he said it reminds me of an older person talking about things that happened decades ago. Besides, it has been emphasized in the show that Din is one of the best--if not the best--bounty hunter in the Outer Rim Territories. I would think that he developed a reputation like that over a long period of time.
> 
> Perhaps I am making Din too old, but I argue with myself that this is "Star Wars" where technology is very advanced and lifespans can be stretched in a galaxy far, far away. A man might be seen as living in his prime when in his 40s, while in reality a man's prime is usually debated to be in his 30s. Again, I am taking liberties. Even though I made Din 42, he still has lots of strength, energy, and physical ability to keep on being the best bounty hunter in the Outer Rim.
> 
> Well, those are my answers. And I loved hearing the deductions and answers from those who commented. It was fascinating to read them. I enjoyed interacting with commentators, and I look forward to doing it every time I post a chapter. Until next time!


	8. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my longest chapter so far. It took a while for me to finish it, which is why I am posting this later than I had wanted. Though it is more of a filler chapter, I felt it was necessary. 
> 
> And I am thrilled that I have finally found out how to upload photos! The technical support team from AO3 has been so very helpful. I have gone back to my previous chapters and posted their accompanying pictures. I hope you all check them out. Enjoy the photos and this chapter!

Chapter VIII: Aftermath

With his discarded blaster in his sights, he limps over to retrieve it. He feels his left knee throb with every step he takes. A groan is on the verge of escaping him as he bends down to pick up his weapon, but he swallows it. His gloved hand, soaked from the Nexu’s blood, is heavy and stained midnight-blue. When his fingers wrap around his blaster, a sense of completeness fills him. He had felt naked without his weapon during the Nexu skirmish.

Slowly, he straightens his posture. He slides his blaster into its holster and searches for the child. His gaze meets the green infant’s, and he sees that the kid’s normally wide eyes are half-closed, as if he is fighting sleep. His ward blinks, and the effort to open his eyes seems to drain him of energy. Then, he closes his eyes and falls backwards.

The Mandalorian rushes to the child, ignoring his aching body and tender knee. Within seconds he finds himself kneeling in front of the baby alien, his eyes searching for any kind of injury. His fingers carefully skim across green skin, from the child’s ears to his face and even underneath the tiny tunic, examining the infant for cuts or bruises. But he finds none.

Before he deems the kid physically unharmed, he surveys youngling’s face. Instead of seeing pain or terror etched across it, the bounty hunter recognizes exhaustion’s shadow, and relief fills him. Mesmerizing the Nexu—or whatever the child did—must have drained him, like when he had telepathically picked up the Mudhorn back on Arvala-7. He sits back on his knees, staring at the unique baby. His ward’s strange gift comes with a heavy—albeit exhaustive—cost, and he is not sure if he wants the infant to keep on tiring himself just for the sake of a bounty hunter like himself. Surely there is only so much a small alien can handle.

Thankful that the child needs hours or a day to sleep, the Mandalorian scoops up his charge with one arm. There is one more person who may need some medical attention.

As he limps his way over to the woman in green, he notices that Talia has not moved. Her eyes are closed; her body, motionless—and he feels a prick of concern for her. The grassy field beneath her looks soft and vast, and she blends in so well with her expensive clothing. It is as if the plain could swallow up the Onderonian and leave no trace of her.

The sun has almost disappeared, taking with it any kind of natural light. The bounty hunter glances above and searches for the moon. Cholganna should have at least two, if he remembers correctly. But he is unable to spot one—just a handful of bright stars.

He quickens his pace and nears Talia. Splashes of the Nexu’s blood darken her clothes, its blue hue reminding him of smoke stains. And is that a pool of her own blood staining the ground underneath her?

“Hey,” he calls out. He does not know why his feet slow down as he waits for her to reply, but they do. And when he receives no answer from the woman, he approaches her carefully, a part of him still not trusting her. But his caution feels excessive, even to him. Talia had done her best to protect the kid and to fend off the Nexu with him. She had proven herself to be a selfless warrior.

 _And she saved your life,_ his Mandalorian honor whispers to him. He has the urge to release a frustrated sigh, yet he does not give into that temptation. He is all too aware of the fact that duty dictates that he should help her.

 _This is the way,_ the motto of his Tribe echoes in his ears.

The distance between them closes, and he again finds himself kneeling in front of another unconscious companion. He tucks the child closer to him as he hovers above Talia. Even in her trauma-induced sleep, she is still clutching the left side of her abdomen—a feeble attempt on her part to stop herself from bleeding to death. Yet, considering how large and sharp the Nexu’s claws are, he will not be surprised if underneath her hands is an injury beyond treatment. Though, he doubts Talia had the time to consider this or to examine her wound. It seems she had done the best she could, and perhaps her stubbornness is not such an annoying character trait after all.

Dark, rich blood paints Talia’s hands and wrists, including her ornate jewelry. The Nexu’s blue blood had sprayed messy splotches all over her tunic. Her hands are also speckled with the beast’s blood, making her skin look as if she had some sort of disease. With his free hand, he relocates both of hers by setting one to rest on the ground and the other on her stomach, further away from her injury. Then, he pushes aside the remnants of Talia’s once velvety green tunic. He winces as he takes in the extent of her injury.

The Nexu’s razor-like claws had sliced into her tanned skin, and blood as red as wine had drenched everything within its reach, making it hard for him to distinguish human flesh from elegant fabric. He is not sure if Talia’s vital organs have been severed or critically injured; however, he does know that her wounds need medical attention, now.

 _But is she still alive?_ he wonders, not having seen the woman’s chest rise or fall. With dusk approaching and about half of her upper body wrapped in her green scarf, he cannot tell if she is even breathing.

Quickly, he leans closer to her. He places his fingers to her neck to check if she has a pulse. And she does. Her pulse is strong, pumping blood and life into her. From being so close, he can see her chest rise up then down—but barely. Yet, it is enough for him to be satisfied, so he pulls his hand away.

_What should I do with her now?_

A part of him wants to just leave her here and let her succumb to her wounds. After all, she is a stranger who forced herself into his life and business. He knows nothing about her, and he has absolutely no desire to be responsible for another person. Besides, her interest in the child unsettles him, and he is sure that she knows more about his ward than she has said. Her cryptic answers and sharp observations about both of them alarm the Mandalorian. And who knows what her true intentions are towards the little one.

But another part of him, a stronger part, realizes that he cannot abandon her. To do so will be shameful. Talia had saved his life when she pushed him away and replaced her body with his, leaving herself vulnerable to the female Nexu’s attack. It should be _him_ lying there, bleeding and knocked unconscious. Instead, Talia had taken his place and had set her own safety aside—all for the sake of the child, and him. Honor demands that he attend to her injuries and care for her while she recovers, no matter his suspicions of her. Until he can somehow repay her, a life for a life, he is bound to her.

His body tenses at the mere idea of being indebted to someone, especially to someone like the stubborn, rich Onderonian woman. How will he ever repay her? And how long will it take?

Annoyed, he sets the kid down on the grass beside him. He can think about clearing his life-debt later. Right now, he needs to concentrate on Talia’s wounds.

He is about to retrieve his field cauterizer from his belt, but he decides against it. Talia’s injury is far too vast and deep to for such a simple medical tool. He will have to take her back to the _Crest_ where he keeps his medkit. But first, he can at least bandage her wounds as a temporary fix.

His eyes linger over the long, green scarf wrapped around her. Talia had used it as a sash and then as a makeshift pouch for the child during the Nexu fight. The fabric is now mostly stained with crimson and midnight blood, and a part of it is tattered. He doubts the scarf can be of any use other than a bandage, so he decides to use it to stop Talia from losing more blood.

Instead of cutting off the knots that she had made to secure her scarf, the bounty hunter takes the extra time to untie them. After all, he needs as much of it as possible. He gently wraps an arm around the Onderonian and lifts her up from the ground a few inches. With her upper body raised, he manages to relocate her scarf by making sure the expensive fabric wraps around her abdomen. Afterwards, he slowly lays her back onto the grass.

He adjusts the scarf to make sure Talia’s wounds are completely covered and ties the ends of the material the best he can. Within seconds, the temporary bandage begins to dampen with blood. In response, he tightens the scarf even more, determined to stop the bleeding. His rough handling is met with a hiss from his patient, and he can feel Talia shudder. Quickly, he spares her a glance. Her eyelids flutter with pain, and her breathing turns erratic.

“You’ll thank me later,” he mutters to her.

Sitting back on his knees, he surveys his handiwork. The scarf is keeping the bleeding at bay for the moment, and there is nothing else for him to do without the proper medical supplies. He watches as Talia’s head jerks to the left then to the right. A quiet groan escapes her. He reaches for her temple and tries to hold her head still. Thankfully, she responds to his touch and does not move.

As he withdraws his hand, his fingers hover over Talia’s face. Her head-wrap had managed to stay on, keeping her identity hidden, and he is more than tempted to take it off. Curiosity for what she looks like stirs within him. Why can he not be allowed to see the face of the one who had saved his life? His hand, mere centimeters from her face, moves to finger the edge of her head-wrap. Even through his gloves, he can tell that the fabric is soft. All he needs to do is flick his wrist, and he will see who Talia of Onderon really is.

But he releases the scarf. If she had wanted to reveal her identity to him, then she would have done so already. And if maintaining discretion was not so important to her, she might have removed her head-wrap during their fight with the Nexu so she could see better. Yet Talia had done neither of those things. She had kept her wrap on, and he needs to respect her privacy. He only hopes she will give him the courtesy of doing the same with him and stop pestering him about removing his helmet.

He rises to his feet. His left leg throbs, but he pushes the pain aside. He can check on his own battered body later. At the moment, Talia needs Bacta, clean bandages, and better medical attention than he can currently offer her. He glances around him, not sure of what to do. Should he leave her here with the kid for a few minutes while he retrieves what he needs? Or should he carry—more like drag—her back to the _Crest_? He doubts he can haul both the infant and her; the effort might prove to be too heavy and bulky, especially with his weak knee.

Glancing down, he studies his two companions. Talia suddenly looks so small, and the child, he knows, weighs almost next to nothing. Despite his fatigue, he is sure he can carry them together. He just needs to figure out how.

An idea hits him. Talia had used her scarf to act like a makeshift pouch for the baby alien. He can do the same with his cloak.

Inspired, he removes his gray cape from around his neck. Next, he wraps it around himself and ties its ends in front of him, just like Talia had done. Hoping that the space he left between his cloak and back is wide enough for his ward, he whisks up the sleeping infant and slides him into the makeshift pouch. He feels the kid settle behind him, his small body warm and fidgeting.

Satisfied that the child is secure, the bounty hunter leans over Talia, ready to carry her to his ship. But his gut tells him that he is forgetting something.

 _Her vibroblade,_ his brain reminds him. Her weapon is still buried in the neck of the female Nexu.

He turns around and takes less than five steps to where the dead feline is lying. The beast’s red eyes are open, and they do not look as bright as they once did. He studies the female’s scorched head and shoulders. The burns distort the Nexu’s once shiny white coat beyond recognition, making it as black as coal. The smell of overcooked flesh manages to reach his nose despite his face being covered by his Beskar helmet, and the Mandalorian forces himself to breathe.

His eyes land on the Nexu’s neck, right where he had thrown Talia’s vibrorapier. The melee weapon is buried deep inside the animal, midnight-blue blood still oozing out of the dead body, dripping down burnt skin. He feels the child snuggle closer to his back as he reaches for the ornate hilt. He then pulls out the blade, feeling it slice through soft flesh and tendons.

With the weapon in hand he backs away from the Nexu. The blade is covered with blue blood, so he wipes it on the grass. However, the beast’s body fluid is stickier than he had thought, for it does not wipe off entirely. Although half of the blue blood has been smeared onto the field, there is still a coat of it staining the rapier with bits of grass now decorating the blade.

 _It’ll have to do,_ he decides.

Complete darkness is only minutes away, and he needs to take his companions back to the safety of his ship. So, he carries the vibrorapier over to where Talia is and sets it aside. He then unbuckles her leather belt and carefully slides it from underneath her. As he straps it to his own waist, the back of his brain notes that the weathered belt does not have two pouches attached to it like he had earlier thought, but it carries three. Again, he wonders what else—besides her Imagecaster—does Talia have stashed in the leather pouches.

After her belt is secured around him, he picks up the vibroblade and slides it in its designated place. It has been years since he had carried a melee weapon. Though he had trained with blades of various shapes and sizes, he has always preferred blasters and rifles. They are, to him, more dependable weapons.

He gives his brain a mental shake, trying to clear his thoughts for the task at hand. He bends down before the woman in green and scoops her up. As he straightens his posture, his arms and thighs quiver at the extra weight. He shifts how he is holding Talia and maneuvers her so her body faces him, making the job of carrying her somewhat easier—and less awkward.

His boots thud into the soft grass as he marches to the _Crest_. Instead of feeling overburdened with too much weight, the bounty hunter realizes that Talia is much lighter than he had been expecting. Carrying her bridal-style, he can feel how small she is. Though she is thin, almost skinny, his arms rub against muscles on her shoulders, arms, and thighs.

Light from his ship guides his steps, and he quickens his pace. Insects buzz with life, and some of them glow green, fluttering to and fro. He can hear shuffling and twigs crackling from the jungle, making him wonder what other kinds of creatures live on the planet.

At that moment, he feels Talia curl herself into him like a child would if her father was carrying her. He automatically stiffens and fights his instinct to drop her. But he takes in a deep breath, reprimanding himself for even considering the idea of letting an injured woman fall to the hard ground. Instead, he tilts his head down. Talia looks so frail, and he cannot stop himself from again realizing how small she seems to him—and how vulnerable. Why does he have to be the one who has to take in helpless souls? He is a bounty hunter for Ordo’s sake, not a nanny.

He transports both woman and alien up the _Crest_ ’s loading ramp. The lights are on inside his ship, and he searches for a place to set Talia down. Crates and equipment fill up the small confines of the ship’s main room, making him wish the _Crest_ was bigger.

Knowing the best place for Talia is right in the middle of the ship, he carefully lays her down on the cold metal floor. He feels the child wiggle against his back as he leans over the woman, reminding the bounty hunter of his presence. So, he leaves Talia alone for a moment and grabs a crate filled with paper and rags. He then unties his cloak’s knots with one hand while his other reaches behind him to hold the infant. His grip on his ward is gentle yet firm as he feels his cloak drop to the floor. He brings the kid in front of him and finds him still asleep.

Glad he will be out of the way for a little bit, the Mandalorian places the child inside the crate and covers him with a small blanket. The alien coos, making his guardian smirk.

 _The kid seems content to sleep wherever I put him. But_ _I should’ve brought his cradle with me,_ he inwardly groans. He regrets leaving the hovering crib on Nevarro, even though it could not have been helped since blaster shots were whizzing all around him. The two of them had barely made it out alive.

A cool wind blows through the mouth of the ship, tickling the back of his neck. In response, he retracts the ship’s loading ramp and closes the hatch. He does not want to be disturbed or startled while he attends to Talia’s wounds.

He rummages through a storage compartment and pulls out his large medkit. As he kneels before Talia, he removes his filthy gloves and tosses them aside. He opens the kit, his eyes searching for the supplies he may need. He grabs his medisensor, a large vial filled with irrigation bulbs, medical cloths, and a case packed with bacta treatments. His eyes linger over the field cauterizer, but he leaves it inside the medkit. He doubts he will use it, and he cannot be sure until he knows the full extent of Talia’s injuries.

After he picks up the medisensor and activates it, he uses it to scan Talia from head to toe. Within seconds the hand-held device beeps twice, alerting him of its diagnostics. He peers at the screen and is informed that Talia is stable. Her blood pressure is slightly below normal, and her pulse is steady. The medisensor can find neither broken ribs nor internal bleeding. None of Talia’s major organs have been sliced or even harmed. Her main medical issue consists of torn up muscle and tissue on the left side of her abdomen. It seems the Nexu had managed to get Talia with two of its razor-sharp claws, making her injuries extend from her side to a few inches on her back.

Surprise fills the bounty hunter as he reads the short medical report. Talia’s wounds are not as untreatable as he had imagined. But how can that be? He was sure that the Nexu’s claws had deeply penetrated her side. The beast had talons sharp and large enough to possibly slice a human to ribbons. Maybe the angle where he saw the incident happen was not as clear as he thought. Perhaps the brunt force of the Nexu’s paw had knocked out Talia, giving her a concussion when she landed on the ground. But the hand-scanner did not report a head injury, meaning Talia must have fainted due to blood loss.

To figure out a reasonable, medical solution is beyond the Mandalorian. He is a bounty hunter, not a doctor. He shakes his head and pulls out his vibroblade from his right boot. With an expert hand he cuts through Talia’s green scarf. He sees that his makeshift bandage had slowed down the bleeding. While his eyes take in her injury, he grimaces at the pain Talia must be feeling right now, even while in her trauma-induced sleep.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he snatches a medical cloth, intending to wipe away as much blood from Talia’s wound as he can. When his bare fingers first come into contact with her warm skin, he immediately pulls away. It has been years since he has touched another person without wearing gloves. He had almost forgotten what a woman’s skin feels like, and Talia’s is soft beneath his calloused fingers. Gently, he wipes away more blood painting her side. His fingers slide across smooth skin as the medical rags soak up the red liquid.

The practical side of his brain jerks him out of this strange trance. Her injuries need to be treated before she bleeds to death. And if he keeps thinking about how soft her skin is, he may not be able to prevent Talia from carrying an ugly scar for the rest of her life.

He tosses aside the bloody rags and grabs his blade again. Careful not to nick the woman, his knife cuts through her green tunic, making a large hole so he can have room to work. Most of her midriff is exposed, and he hopes Talia will not bite his head off when she wakes up and finds her clothing ruined beyond repair.

As he pushes aside pieces of her torn tunic, he notices thin scars on her stomach and along her ribcage. He even spies the ends of others as they hide underneath her clothing. Curious, he lifts up the fabric and sees more scars seared across her right hip. From what he can tell, her scars are both old and new, the oldest probably being over ten years. Most look as if they came from vibroblades, probably from training with her rapier. But the scar on her right side, along her waist, appears to be a burn, like from a blaster. He guesses this one is the oldest and biggest of her scars. Talia must have been fighting Death himself to have survived such an injury.

How old is she right now? And when did she receive this particular scar? Why did she not have her wounds better cared for? The smallest amount of bacta could have erased any traces of scars. Did she just bandage up her injuries, purposefully allowing them to scar? For what? As a badge of honor and proof of combat? Maybe the Mandalorians living on Dxun had rubbed off on the Onderonian woman.

Seeing her scars makes his interest of Talia’s identity and background double. Perhaps she fought against the Empire with the Rebellion. Is her homeworld undergoing another civil war? From her abilities in fending off the Nexu mates, he knows Talia is more than capable of taking care of herself. How much training has she received? He suddenly wants to see her in a sparring session against a proficient opponent so he can study her skill with her rapier.

Again, he finds himself itching to take off her head-wrap. He wants to know just how old she is. If he removes it for a few seconds, giving him a chance to take a quick peek, Talia will never know. But he closes the door on his curiosity. He owes this woman his life, and he will not disrespect her by revealing her identity without her permission. He knows he would want this if their positions were reversed.

Attempting to distract himself once more, he opens a vial of irrigation bulbs. About three times the size of a pearl, the delicate teardrop containers are filled with clear, cleansing fluid. Usually, he would apply them to smaller wounds, but Talia needs her injury to be disinfected, and the bulbs are all he has to do just that. Who knows what kinds of bacteria and dirt had been festering in the Nexu’s claws?

With bloody fingers, he guides the bulb’s nozzle across the infected area, squeezing the round end of the bulb. The cleansing liquid oozes onto her bloodied skin and torn muscle. He smears the fluid across her injury with his free hand, determined not to miss a spot. Talia stirs, moaning in pain. He notices her forehead shimmering in the dull light of his cargo hold. Beads of sweat roll down her skin and soak into her head-wrap. He needs to move faster.

Before long, he empties one bulb and applies two more. He studies the deep gnashes in Talia’s side, figuring a Bacta patch would only be able to do so much without some help. So, he digs through his medkit and pulls out a container of Synthflesh. Though he was saving this one and another for himself for emergencies, he decides to give one to Talia. Right now, she needs it more than he does.

After he opens the Synthflesh container, he guides it over Talia’s wound. The translucent, synthetic gel will bond with her flesh and increase her natural healing. He remembers that the gel derives from Bacta itself and that Talia will have scarless tissue as the end result. Once she heals completely, the gel will flake off as if it had never been there.

To redouble her healing, the Mandalorian retrieves his case of Bacta treatments and procures a Bacta patch. Gently, he lays it on the injury and is relieved that the patch is large enough to cover it entirely. Talia will have to rest for a couple of days before the Bacta’s work is done, but he figures she will be unconscious during most of the healing process.

He rummages through his medkit again, searching for something to help Talia through her fever. He finds a mild stimulant which had been specifically designed to boost up a patient’s strength during fevers. His hand wraps around one of the thin devices and presses its point to Talia’s upper thigh. With his thumb at the other end he punches a button, releasing the stimulant into her bloodstream. This should calm her fever down in the next half hour.

A tired sigh escapes him as he settles on his haunches. Satisfaction fulfills him because he has tended to Talia’s injuries to the best of his ability. Now, what should he do with her? Should he keep her here, on the _Crest_? Or will it be better if he takes her back to _Starlight_ , her own ship? Perhaps she will feel more comfortable if she wakes up in a familiar environment. But alone? Even if he was not duty- and honor-bound to look out for her, he knows he cannot just let her fend for herself once she becomes conscious.

 _She has to stay here,_ he decides wearily.

Out of the corner of his eye he notices red. He glances down at [his hands](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190417130578/chapter-viii-aftermath-from-my-weapon-my): they are covered in Talia’s blood. He opens up his hands and feels the scarlet fluid roll down his palms to his fingers. At the back of his mind he knows that her blood will stain his skin if he allows it to dry. He should wash it off before both of his hands remain dyed for the next few days. So, he uses an extra medical rag to wipe away most of the blood.

Doing so makes him notice that Talia’s hands are also painted red—and midnight-blue from the Nexu. With his body aching and his knee throbbing, he rises to his feet and fetches a canteen of water. He returns to Talia and takes off her fancy jewelry. The rings and bracelets slide off easily, and he counts a total of ten jewelry pieces, a number that baffles him.

 _How much does she need?_ he criticizes. _Isn’t a few enough for her?_

Thinking the Onderonian cares too much for expensive rings and bracelets, he does not take the time to study them and sets them atop a nearby storage container. Then, he soaks some clean rags with his canteen water and cleans Talia’s hands and fingers. Blue blood mixes with red, coloring the rags in a strange purple hue. He wipes away most of the blood, yet he knows he cannot remove all of it. She will have to do that herself once she wakes up. Until then, her tanned skin will just have to have a pinkish tint.

He hears Talia shudder, and he sees goosebumps spread across her exposed midriff. For the third time that day, he searches the _Crest_ ’s compartments. He finds a decent-sized blanket and even yanks out a brown sack from storage. Quickly, he stuffs the coarse sack with rags and other soft items, making an impromptu pillow. Afterwards, he covers Talia with the blanket and places the pillow under her head.

A strong smell unexpectedly accosts him, and he takes a sniff. He identifies sweat, humanoid blood, and a stank, bitter scent which he figures to be the Nexu blood. He looks down. His normally shiny Beskar armor is filthy, covered in dirt, grass clippings, and two shades of blood. Underneath, his own tunic and trousers are soaked with filth.

He groans. Before he can rest, he should clean his armor and change into a fresh set of clothes. Perhaps he will take a quick dip in the small lake to help him wash away the grime from today’s fight. Though his body begs for some sleep, he knows he needs to take care of his needs right now, especially while his two companions are out of his way. Or else, he will not want to do them. And if he waits, the grime will harden and make cleaning his armor even more difficult to do. Besides, he does not want to stink up his ship.

 _Clean up first,_ he tells himself as he rises to his feet. _Rest later._


	9. Mandalorian Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day later than I had wanted, but at least I was able to post this chapter up. I admit that I struggled with this one. It's another filler-chapter, but it picks up near the end. Hang in there with me! Enjoy!

Chapter IX: Mandalorian Roots 

A loud clang startles him awake, jolting him out of his seat. His spine snaps to attention, and he searches for what made the disruptive noise.

Something drops out of the corner of his eye, and he looks down. A cloth, thoroughly covered in mud, lands on the floor beside his fallen pauldron. The shoulder armor gleams in the faded light of the _Crest_ ’s cockpit. In the past hour he had washed himself in the small lake nearby and changed into a fresh set of clothes. He then left the child and Talia in the cargo hold so he could polish his Mandalorian armor in the cockpit without disturbing them. The grime had been easy to remove from the Beskar, but he must have dozed off while cleaning his last piece of armor.

He bends over to retrieve the pauldron along with the cleaning rag. He examines the shoulder armor and spies a smudge, which he then wipes away with the dirty cloth. The pauldron is smooth yet obviously bare as he drags the rag across its metal surface. A sense of impatience surges through him, his fingers itching to skim across a signet of his own.

Weeks ago, his Tribe’s Armorer seemed so confident that one will be revealed to him soon—a belief that he had shared. After he told her about the Mudhorn ruining his armor’s integrity, she sounded eager for him to adopt that beast as his signet. But he could not accept her proposal. At the time, he said the Mudhorn’s death had not been the result of a noble kill, that he had help from an enemy. Yet, since Arvala-7, the child has proven to be far from that. If anything, he considers the baby to be the closest thing to a friend and companion that he has had in years. And now, he feels almost ashamed that the only reason why he met the kid in the first place was because he wanted to be handsomely paid in Mandalorian Beskar.

A thought suddenly jumps on him: what would the Armorer have said if she found out about his run-in with the Nexu mates? Though she would have been impressed with him for slaying two beasts as vicious as those felines, the question makes him scoff. Like with the Mudhorn, he would have had to forgo a Nexu signet, too. He fought the mates alongside a woman who may yet still be an enemy to both him and the child, and he will _not_ establish his future Clan—nor his reputation—within the Tribe based on an uncertainty like that.

His attention draws back to his pauldron. The silver metal shines with strength, tradition, and honor. He stands up and glances down at the rest of his armor. Every piece is polished and looks as spotless as the day each has been forged. Pride swells within him as he straps his pauldron atop his left shoulder.

 _“It will draw many eyes,”_ his Tribe’s leader had warned him of his new armor. But he had not taken her words to heart. For as long as he can remember, he has always been scrutinized by humanoids and aliens alike. Wearing his helmet and other Mandalorian equipment has the tendency to make people stare.

He glances over his shoulder at the cockpit’s windows. Outside, darkness still dominates this side of Cholganna, and he estimates that the sun will not shine for several more hours. Instead of taking advantage of the night by sleeping, he figures there are still some things for him to do. Despite having slumbered for less than half an hour, he feels rested—even though his body feels slightly bruised from the Nexu skirmish.

 _I may as well check up on the kid first,_ he decides, tossing the dirty rag in one of the passenger seats. _And the woman._

Quietly, he climbs down the cockpit’s ladder, making sure his boots do not thud when he reaches the _Crest_ ’s cargo hold. A quick glance around the dimly lit room tells him that both of his companions are still sleeping and recuperating. He walks further inside, studying each with a hunter’s eye. While the child is tucked away in his makeshift cradle, engrossed in a peaceful slumber, he notices that Talia appears to be undergoing a nightmare. He does not see her forehead shimmer with sweat, nor can he catch any hint of her skin being flushed from another fever. It seems her nightmare has not originated from her injured condition.

 _I wonder if she has bad dreams regularly,_ he muses.

Thinking it best to wake Talia up so her nightmare does not cause her to make any sudden movements, he walks over to where she is sleeping and kneels beside her. Her brow is creased with worry, and her head jerks atop her pillow. He reaches for her, ready to wake her and save her from her troubling dream. His hand is a mere inch away from touching her shoulder when Talia stills, an unexpected action that makes the bounty hunter freeze. He holds his breath, waiting for her to open her eyes and find him next to her. Except, all she does is inhale deeply before relaxing again.

He pulls his hand away and watches the woman delve further under her blanket, drifting back into a slumber free of nightmares.

Soundlessly, he moves away from her, and his stomach takes that moment to growl. When was the last time he has eaten anything? He thinks before realizing that he had forced down a ration while he was at his Tribe’s covert, waiting for his armor to be forged. He has not eaten anything since. Even the child had made a snack of some kind of amphibian earlier today. As for Talia, who knows when she last had a meal.

His stomach grumbles again, louder this time. With a sigh, he starts to softly rummage through his stores, hoping to find something decent to eat. He comes across _Haashun_ * bread, the famous Mandalorian field ration. The bread feels as firm as lava rock, and he figures an entire jug of water will not be enough to soften it for eating. He feels his hunger slightly diminish as he rolls the concrete bread in his hands. For the past few months, this sorry excuse of flour and yeast has made up his diet. More than anything right now, he wants something else to fill his stomach, something new. And fresh.

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAH-shoon; significance: parchment bread – a thin sheet of bread dried to preserve it and reconstituted in liquid / Mando ration-pack staple)_

 _Well, there_ are _two carcasses outside,_ he considers. _I guess I shouldn’t let them go to waste._

But he hesitates. The Nexu mates were not large beasts, and they did not look as if they had much meat on them. Besides, he has a strong feeling that the meat itself will be stringy and very chewy.

 _I’ll just have to boil it long enough,_ he decides as he heads toward the ladder leading to the cockpit. _The meat will break down eventually._

While climbing up the ladder, he scrounges his brain for a menu. He believes he can make some kind of stew with the Nexu meat. There are a couple of containers of preserved vegetables and other edible plants stored away inside the _Crest_ that he can add. And in the end, he will more than likely soak a loaf or two of Haarshun bread, to help fill up his empty stomach.

He reaches the cockpit and settles himself in the captain’s chair. He turns on the ship’s computer and warms up the engines. Salvaging the meat will take some time, and he does not want to leave the child or Talia alone for very long. Nor does he wish to be far away in case either of them wakes up, needing medical attention. Re-locating the _Crest_ is his best option.

 _I think I’ll even open up a flask of_ ne’tra gal* _,_ he plans. The idea of having a healthy serving of the black-colored, sweet ale excites him, making his fingers fly across his control panel. The fermented beverage will be a welcoming indulgence for him after the tiring day he has had.

 _(_ * _pronounced: NAY-trah gahl; translation: “black ale”; significance: sweet, almost spicy black beer similar to milk stout)_

When the kid or Talia wakes up, he will warm up some _shig_ ¹ for them instead giving them his spirits. If Talia is truly familiar with Mandalorian customs, she should be content with hot tea infused with the _Behot_ ² herb. The fast-growing, citrus-flavored herb is the most common flavor for Mandalorian shig. And giving the kid any alcohol is out of the question—he is much too young. Besides, he honestly does not want to share his _ne’tra gal_. He had been saving it for special occasions or after exhausting missions, and he thinks he has earned a pint or two of his spirits.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced:_ _sheeg; significance: beverage / tea – any infusion of whatever is available but usually a mildly stimulant herb with a citrus flavor called Behot)_

 _(_ ² _pronounced:_ _beh-HOHT; significance: an herb used in beverages – mildly antiseptic and stimulating)_

The sound of the engines roaring to life registers in his ears. He guides the _Crest_ off the ground and flies it a short distance to where the Nexu carcasses are. Once he lands, he terminates the engines then exits the cockpit.

Returning to the cargo hold, he grabs an empty crate and tosses inside pots, a set of knives, cloths, and other supplies he may need for filleting the meat. Afterwards, he moves over to the _Crest_ ’s side hatch. He presses a button near the door, and in an instant the hatch slides open with a hiss. Below, the ramp lowers to the ground with a quiet thud.

Darkness greets him as he emerges from his safe haven, reminding him to turn on the lights stationed outside the ship. He then pulls out his miniature light from his belt with his free hand before attaching it to his helmet. The beam points straight ahead, right where the Nexu are.

“Well,” he says to the night as he marches down the ramp, “it’s time to get dirty again."

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_A couple of hours later . . ._

The [fire](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190555595158/chapter-ix-mandalorian-roots-from-my-weapon) crackles with life, consuming the dry logs with its scorching fingers. The sound of sap sizzling out of the wood like hot oil accompanies the ever-present buzzing of insects. The Mandalorian pokes the bonfire with a stick, stoking the flames even more. A wave of heat hits him and steals away any hint of a chill. Cholganna’s nights are colder than he had expected, and he had surprisingly found himself shiver every now and then, despite his armor and the layers of clothing underneath. A fire had been most welcome to his stiff muscles and weary bones.

He sits on the cool grass, taking a moment to watch the fire cast shadows all around him. The orange and yellow flames would reach for the stars if he had not set a stew pot over it, taming the blaze into submission.

Boiling in the pot is a Nexu and vegetable stew. As he predicted, the meat from the feline mates was indeed stringy and tough. He had to stew it for the past hour to get it soft enough to eat. About ten minutes ago, he added some vegetables from his stores and also sprinkled the stew with the salt that he managed to find.

While his dinner cooked, he salted the remainder of the Nexu meat and stored it in air-tight containers. He had filled up two small crates with the meat, and they were sitting next to him, ready to be eaten in the near future. All he needs to do is load them into the _Crest_ and stash them away in storage. Filleting the Nexu had been a messy and sticky business, and he hopes the smell of their blue blood will leave his nostrils soon.

A loud pop from the fire reminds him that he needs to finish wringing out water from the skins of the Nexu mates. Although he is not the kind of bounty hunter to collect trophies or mementos from his jobs, he figures that Talia can use an extra blanket during her recovery. And Nexu skins, with their white fur and black stripes, seem quite appropriate. After all, Talia had helped him battle the beasts, especially the male. She had injured that particular feline with her vibrorapier well enough to make it easier for the Mandalorian to defeat it. If anything, the male skin should go to the Onderonian woman. Meanwhile, he will keep the female, even though he had not been able to recover all of her white fur. The smaller Nexu had been burnt so much that only half of the skin could be used, so he figures he can give it to the child. The kid can use with an extra blanket anyways.

With a firm grip, his hands wring out the lake water from the Nexu skins. Next, he drapes them over the two crates containing his stored meat. The white fur gleams in the moonlight, and even the black stripes glisten. He figures they both should be dry in a couple of hours.

He wipes his wet hands on his tunic before checking on his stew. He stirs the pot with a ladle, and the smell of meat reaches his nose. His stomach growls in approval, making him smirk behind his helmet.

Impatient to eat, he removes the pot from the fire and sets it on the ground, close enough to bask in the flames’ heat. He grabs a bowl and uses the ladle to scoop up two large spoonfuls. Steam clouds his helmet’s visor but dissipates within seconds. He moves away from the pot and the rest of the stew, choosing to sit on the grass. He then sets his bowl down next to him and gives it a chance to cool off for a little bit.

Instinctively, he glances over his shoulder and looks at the side hatch of the _Crest_. No one is there. The child and Talia are still inside, asleep. His gaze moves across his surroundings, checking the perimeter. Again, no one is there. Not even an animal native to Cholganna is within sight. He is alone.

 _Good,_ he thinks.

Still hesitant, he slowly reaches for his helmet and slides it off. A tidal wave of scents assaults his nose: smoke from the fire, the bitter stench of the Nexu blood, algae growing in the lake, and the savory aroma of his stew. He breathes in and out, determined to get used to the smells so they will not ruin his appetite.

A light wind rustles through the trees. It reaches him at his campsite, and he can feel the ends of his hair tickle his ears. He runs a hand through his shaggy locks, enjoying this moment alone. He then turns to his food. On a plate, sitting beside him, is a small loaf of _Haashun_ and a pint of _ne’tra gal_. With a spoon in hand, he retrieves his bowl of stew and begins to eat to his heart’s content.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

With his meal finished, the bounty hunter puts his helmet back on and goes inside his ship. He needs to check on his companions.

“I don’t know why I bothered,” he mutters to himself when he sees that they are still unconscious, the child in his box and Talia in the middle of the floor covered with a blanket.

As he walks further in the dim room, he spies the Onderonian’s belt and vibroblade. While her belt looks the same, her weapon is painted with dry Nexu blood and caked with mud and grass. The rapier can do with a thorough cleaning, and he doubts Talia will be up to polishing it any time soon.

 _Well,_ he inwardly sighs, _I’ve got nothing better to do._

As he walks over to pick up her melee weapon, a shimmer catches his eye. He turns, noticing the jewelry pieces he had removed from her wrists and fingers. They are also covered in blood and are in need of polishing, just like his armor.

 _Fine,_ he says to himself. _I’ll do those, too._

He scoops the jewelry in his free hand and exits the _Crest_.

Over the next hour he removes the blood and filth from Talia’s things. Her rapier is the easiest to clean, with its smooth surface. Thankfully, the hilt only needed a simple wipe-down since it had not been dirtied during their fight with the Nexu. Its light bronze and dusty silver metals bounce off the glow of the fire as he inspects it closely. The craftmanship is detailed, and even his Mandalorian roots can appreciate how artistic it is.

His eyes travel upward to the now-clean blade. Pointing to the sky, the cutting edge of the weapon shimmers like lightning. He stands up and swipes the air with the rapier, marveling at how light-weight the blade truly is. If he did not prefer blasters above every other weapon, he can easily imagine himself carrying a vibroblade, like Talia’s, at his side. He wonders if she had fought many battles with the rapier. Had she specifically arranged to have it made for her? Was it a gift given to her when she had come of age? Or did the weapon belong to her family, and it was passed down to her as an inheritance?

A half-smile forms on his lips as he sets the weapon aside. He cannot deny that he is most interested to see how Talia would wield the rapier in battle.

He sits down in front of his fire again and gathers Talia’s discolored jewelry. The pieces jingle together as he lays them beside him. With a bowl of water and a rag, he soaks each piece and washes away Talia’s blood from them. He actually finds himself impressed with their artistry and value.

Talia, he notes, has two styles and sets of jewelry. He remembers that she had worn the first on her left hand. There are [six pieces total](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190555641918/chapter-ix-mandalorian-roots-from-my-weapon): four bracelets and two rings, all made of yellow gold. The bracelets are simple in design and are not adorned with any kind of gemstones, yet they have a grand quality about them. But in the end, he still thinks that four of these bracelets decorating a single wrist is frivolous and excessive.

One of her rings is unique to him, for it is a two-set piece. While one ring adorns the index finger, the other wraps around the thumb, and both are linked together with a thin chain. Like vines, the connected rings have been fashioned to twist and turn across their wearer’s fingers.

Talia’s second gold ring is also crafted with an interesting flare. As a whole, the ring looks as if it is compiled of three layers, all resting side-by-side together in an elegant pattern. Again, he sees that this ornament is not embellished with gemstones. Besides its own detailed pattern, it looks fairly plain to him, just like her bracelets and other ring. But inside the ring’s band, he finds an engraving. He tilts the jewelry to the side, wanting the fire’s glow to shine enough light on it so he can read the inscription. There are only two words, written in Galactic Basic: _“My Starlight.”_

 _It must be a nickname,_ he figures, drying the wet ring with a rag. The single piece of jewelry catches the flame’s light and glimmers. _Who gave it to her? And did she name her ship after herself?_

With a scoff, he trades the ring for the [second style and set](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190555667238/chapter-ix-mandalorian-roots-from-my-weapon) of Talia’s jewelry. There are three bracelets and one ring, and they all contain the colors purple, silver, and black—a stark contrast to her gold jewelry.

He fishes the ring out of the water bowl. Wiping it with the cloth, he notes that the metal comprising the ring is actually black. It is perhaps black gold, a rare precious metal indeed. In the center of the ring is a round amethyst gemstone which is circled by purple jewels of a lighter shade. The surrounding gems sparkle like a halo, enhancing the larger amethyst stone. The ring’s central ornament is flanked by a small purple gem on each side, and more jewels of the same color run down the sides of the ring’s band.

The bounty hunter cannot help but admit that the ring itself is breath-taking. It puts the rest of her jewelry pieces to shame. He scrapes away some blood from the band and sees vertical lines etched in it. Looking closer, he realizes that they are not just random marks or scratches. It is writing—Mandalorian writing. As fast as a speeder, his brain translates the three words: _“I Am Ready.”_

 _Ready? For what?_ His memory stretches, trying to understand why the phrase sounds familiar. It reminds him of a declaration of skill yet also a pledge of loyalty. _Maybe it’s a personal quote for Talia,_ he reasons. His Tribe’s maxim is like that for him and its members.

Tearing his focus away from the ring, he sets it down with the rest of the woman’s jewelry. The phrase rolls over in his head like a mantra, _I am ready, I am ready, I am ready,_ so much that he hardly pays attention to the two bracelets he cleans next. However, he does register that they both consist of round beads, ranging from black to various shades of purple. They seem more tribal-looking than the gold bracelets that Talia has.

He moves on to the last bracelet and is surprised that it is free of any stains or blood marks. Somehow, this piece of jewelry managed to stay clean. Still, he examines it closely, wanting to make sure it really is blemish-free.

The bracelet itself is a leather strap, dyed purple and fastened by a silver buckle. A lavender-colored twine decorates the front of it and is even tied in a strange knot. In the middle of the bracelet is an oval amethyst stone, nestled in a silver design that reminds the bounty hunter of a wicker basket. On the backside of the bracelet are more vertical lines seared into the purple leather. What he reads in Mandalorian startles him: _“Kex, Ally of Ordo.”_

Impulsively, he drops the bracelet as if it is a viper ready to sink its teeth in him. Deep down, he knows that “Ordo” is not just the name of some random person living in the galaxy. No, his gut tells him that “Ordo” refers to Clan Ordo— _his_ Clan. To be an ally of Ordo must mean that Kex is also a Mandalorian tribe, which also means that, more than likely, Clan Kex is from Onderon’s moon, Dxun. For Talia to own such an ornament with ties to a Mandalorian Clan clearly indicates that she is a Mandalorian herself.

But how is that possible? She does not traditionally dress like someone from their culture. If anything, she is more rooted in the Onderonian way of life with her loose tunic and absence of armor. Yes, Talia has the skill of a warrior and an honor-like aura radiating from her, two traits that are rooted in Mandalorian culture—he will grant her that. But she simply does not _look_ like a Mandalorian. True, she covers her face the same way his people do, even though she does so with a head-wrap instead of a helmet. But that is not the same thing. Is she an outcast? Did she never take the Oath when she had come of age?

He thinks of her jewelry, the only sources of information that he can glean from about her. The gold pieces are noble and expensive, and he figures they are crafted in the Onderonian fashion. Boasting of aristocracy and wealth, they had adorned her left hand. Meanwhile, her black gold ring and beaded bracelets scream a tribal background, like his Mandalorian culture. Purple and black dominate the jewelry pieces’ design, which makes him think they must be the ensigns of Clan Kex. He has heard that some clans prefer to adopt colors rather than signets to accompany the famous Mandalorian symbol, the Mythosaur skull.

 _But she wore those jewelry pieces on her_ right _hand,_ he remembers.

His brain scrambles for the significance behind that deliberate action on Talia’s part. Does not the right hand usually represent power and authority? Is Talia a prominent individual in Clan Kex? How can that be since he believes she is not a true Mandalorian? No outsider can ever have a voice within a Clan, a fact that makes Mandalorians hostile towards people who order them around.

He glances at the _Crest_ , knowing that within its metal walls is a woman who puzzles him every time he learns something new about her.

How can she straddle two cultures? She _did_ say that Mandalorians coexist with Onderonians. Perhaps those groups of people somehow blended together in peace—an idea he finds hard to believe. He knows first-hand how stubborn and independent Mandalorians can be. But his own Tribe members did leave Dxun hundreds of years ago because they hated that they were losing their Mandalorian roots. Maybe Onderonian influence watered down his culture to the extent that made Talia so comfortable to boast jewelry from clashing people groups.

A moan from inside the _Crest_ reaches his ears. He forgets his current conundrum and races up the ship’s ramp, knowing the sound could only have come from Talia. Perhaps her injury is worsening.

Once he enters the _Crest_ , he spots her, jerking in her sleep. In seconds, he is kneeling beside her. Her head keeps turning left then right, delving deeper into her makeshift pillow. He can see her forehead dripping with sweat, which tells him that her fever returned. Unfortunately, it looks more intense than it was before. He can hear her whisper, “No,” behind her head-wrap, her elegant accent painted with despair.

Figuring her fever had brought another nightmare, the bounty hunter grabs his medkit again. Another stimulant will help Talia combat it. He rummages through his kit and finds the correct one.

As he hovers above the Onderonian, ready to administer it, he sees her eyelids quiver and her forehead crinkle, either in fear of her dream or in pain from her injury. Her head-wrap is preventing him from knowing, and he is strongly tempted to pull it back and see what kind of expression she is hiding underneath. Maybe her face is scarred or disfigured, and she covers it out of shame. Or does she hide her identity because she is a wanted criminal or a notable figurehead? He then thinks of her possible Mandalorian roots. Perhaps it is a matter of honor and cultural significance after all.

Pushing his curiosity aside, he removes her blanket and administers the stimulant. She shudders at the needle’s fast prick.

In less than five seconds, her eyes flutter open, and he freezes. Talia looks up at him, yet she does not seem to see him, not really. With the way she squints her dark eyes, it appears that her gaze is blurry. She furrows her brows at him for a moment before returning them to their normal position.

Suddenly, recognition flashes across her eyes, and her gaze sparkles. Talia grabs his hand and asks, “Babba?”

The Mandalorian feels himself blink at her, too stunned for words. But before he can say or do anything, Talia says again, “Babba! You’re here.”

His brain scrambles for something to say, and he is on the verge of pulling his hand out of her surprisingly strong grip. He opens his mouth to correct her when she tilts her head to the side; her eyes widen as if she has just remembered something. Then, she raises her free hand. He thinks she is going to grab his shoulder, but instead, Talia sweeps her hand over her face, pushing off her head-wrap. This time, _his_ eyes widen as he finally takes in the face that he has been wondering about for quite some time.

* * *

Talia's Onderonian Jewelry:

Talia's Mandalorian Jewelry:


	10. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to write this chapter, and I got it done early. Enjoy!
> 
> (And I don't own anything "Star Wars"-related. It unfortunately belongs to Disney.)

Chapter X: Revelations

“It’s me,” Talia insists, her dark eyes shining but glazed with exhaustion. “You came back for me.”

He still does not know what to say to her. If his helmet was off, she would have seen him with a dropped jaw and wide eyes. He is so baffled that his brain can barely process what she looks like without her head-wrap. Her skin is tanned, her chin slightly narrow, and her lips chapped. It is so surreal he can see her after all this time that it makes him feel . . . uncomfortable, as if he is looking at something forbidden.

Keeping his head still, he shifts his gaze to the side and focuses on her right ear instead. _She thinks I’m her father!_ His mind reels. Him, a Mandalorian bounty hunter, of all people! _How's that possible?_

Now is not the time to think about this new [revelation](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190651154093/chapter-x-revelations-from-my-weapon-my). He needs to say something and convince her to rest. He cannot afford for her to scramble to her feet and open up her injury during the first healing stages. Besides, her fever will be gone faster if she sleeps.

“Talia,” he says as gently but as firmly as he can, focusing on her brown eyes. A thought lingers in the back of his mind that this is the first time he has spoken her name out loud. “You’re hurt,” he tells her. “You need to sleep and rest.”

Why is he surprised that she does the exact opposite? He has to keep his frustration in check as he watches the stubborn Onderonian struggle to sit up. She manages to lift herself onto an elbow before she hisses in pain. He lays a hand on her shoulder and gives her a gentle push back, encouraging her to lie down again.

“Sleep,” he commands, hoping his voice sounds like a father looking out for his kid—a tone he never thought he would have to use, _ever_.

Talia raises her eyes to him. A ghost of a smile passes over her dark pink lips, chapped and dry. Relief washes over him when she nods and settles herself onto the floor of the _Crest_. He slowly releases the breath that he did not know he was even holding.

“You’ll be here when I wake up, Babba?” she asks, her gaze hopeful.

Her voice sounds so frail, so child-like, to his ears that it makes him cringe. He has seen this woman fend off a Nexu nearly twice her height. She has been strong, honorable, and fearless—which is why he greatly dislikes hearing her sound as if she is a fragile, little girl.

“Yes,” he says, believing his answer will placate her. But from the way she cocks her eyebrow at him, he knows it does not. Taking a deep breath, he adds, “You have my word.”

At this, she gives him a sleepy smile, her lips stretching at a lazy pace. The smile is filled with contentment and softness, and he will deny ever thinking that this kind of smile suits Talia very much.

“And your word,” she sighs, closing her heavy eyelids, “is enough for me. Like always.”

With that, Talia settles her head on the makeshift pillow he made for her as if it was as fluffy as the cushions belonging to the queen of Naboo. She takes in a deep breath of her own and sleeps. Her hand is still clutching his, and he can feel callouses embedded in her palm and fingers, rubbing against his own. As the seconds pass, her grip slowly loosens. Her breathing becomes soft and steady, and gently, he places her hand over her stomach.

Still kneeling beside her, the Mandalorian stares at the metal wall of the _Crest_. A whirlwind of thoughts demands his attention, blowing his mind from one direction to another. Her identity, her Mandalorian father, her more than likely Onderonian mother, her interest in the child—there are too many of them to focus on. He needs to sort out his thoughts, to release them before his head explodes. The _Crest_ feels too small, too confined. He needs to go outside and breathe in the Cholganna air, _now_.

A rustling sound reaches his ears, making him turn. The child has finally woken up. His big eyes are clouded with sleep, and his long, green ears flap down. He smiles at the bounty hunter before his tiny lips give way to a yawn.

“Stay here,” he says to the baby. He points to Talia. “Watch her for me, will you? I’ll be right back.”

He scrambles away from the woman, needing some distance as fast as his body will allow it. He does not even know if the kid nodded his little head or cooed in agreement. His entire being is focused on one thing right now: the door.

In seconds, he storms out of the _Crest_ , his boots pounding on the metal ramp. He reaches the bottom and rips his helmet off. He breathes in the cool night air through his nostrils and releases it from his mouth. His hand grips onto his helmet as he repeats this exercise again. And again.

After a few more seconds, he relaxes his hold on his helmet. He slowly looks down and studies it. The Beskar bounces off the outside lights of the _Crest_ , its silver metal smooth as an ocean rock yet impenetrable as prison doors. His bare fingers glide across its surface, following the grooves of his visor. This is what everyone sees when they run into him: cold Beskar and a blank stare. And somehow, this helmet—the face of the Mandalorians—is also the face of Talia’s father. Even in her feverish state, she associated his own helmet with that of her father’s.

But if her father is, or was, a Mandalorian, then she should have called him “ _Buir_ *” instead. That is, after all, the proper title and term of deep respect. Perhaps “Babba” is what the Onderonians call their fathers—which can mean that Talia’s father was not an influential role model in her life. No, that distinction must belong to her mother. He will not be surprised if he discovers that the mother was the rich and powerful figure in the family who wanted her daughter to embrace her own Onderonian heritage rather than the Mandalorian Creed

_(*pronounced: boo-EER)_

_Well,_ he thinks as he focuses on the small lake, _she succeeded alright. I bet Talia’s the spitting-image of her mother, from her looks down to her jewelry._

The lake shimmers with the light of Cholganna’s largest moon. Its still surface twinkles like diamonds. A glimmer catches his attention, and he turns to look at it. Talia’s polished jewelry is sitting on top of the cargo boxes, reflecting the embers of his dwindling fire. They sparkle with radiance, like the crown jewels of a king. The embers are flickered off the yellow gold and amethyst stones, reminding him of the hopeful shine in Talia’s eyes when she believed him to be her father. Her words, _“You came back for me,”_ echo in his ears. She sounded surprised, but her elegant accent was filled with longing, as if she was transformed into a child again waiting for her father.

 _He abandoned her,_ the bounty hunter realizes.

Anger towards his fellow Mandalorian rises inside of him. To forsake one’s family shows that Talia’s father has no honor in him. He is not worthy to be called a Mandalorian, for he had forsaken two of the Six Actions of the _Resol’nare_ *: to defend oneself along with one’s family and to raise one’s children in ways of the Mandalorians. The abandonment of Talia’s father proved that he did not fully abide by the _Resol’nare_ , the doctrines central to their culture and Creed. Mandalorians are defined by the bonds that each share with family members, whether blood-related or adopted.

_(*pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray)_

Why did Talia’s father leave her? Leave his family while he went off to who knows where? He must have had “reasons,” but what were they? How young was Talia when he abandoned her? The Mandalorian remembers how child-like she suddenly looked as she held his hand.

 _She must've been a kid,_ he figures, his free hand forming into a tight fist. He finds himself itching to hunt down that cowardly father and give him a good, Mandalorian reprimand for abandoning his family and for forsaking their culture’s doctrines.

He looks up at the night sky, trying to push aside these strange thoughts. Cholganna’s largest moon, glowing golden orange, is settled on the horizon, casting his surroundings with an auburn tint. At the sphere’s left is another moon, soaring higher in the atmosphere. The second is the same color but is much smaller than its bigger companion. Together, both moons are so brilliant that they outshine most of the stars near it, except for the brightest ones.

Turning himself around, he searches for more stars. A light wind wisps through his hair, and he closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of it comb through his shaggy locks with its invisible fingers. Being free from his helmet enlightens him, even for just a little bit. He breathes in the fresh air before he opens his eyes. A shooting star races across the night sky, and the corner of his mouth lifts up a centimeter.

Refreshed and calmed, he puts his helmet back on. He walks over to his campfire, its embers glowing with warmth. If the child is actually watching over Talia, he figures the little one may need to eat something soon. So, he scoops up some broth from his Nexu stew into an empty bowl. A small wisp of steam rises into the cool air.

 _Good,_ he thinks. _It’s still warm._

With the bowl in hand, he leaves his campfire behind and walks up the _Crest_ ’s ramp. As he ascends, his feet thud on the metal. Another breeze whistles past him, lifting his cloak into the air. He enters his ship, finding the child digging through the medkit.

“Careful,” he tells him. He shoos the kid away with his free hand then closes the medkit shut. “I can’t have you breaking anything in there, okay?”

The child looks at him and frowns. His long, pointy ears flop down, emphasizing his disappointment.

“This is for you,” he tells the baby, handing over the bowl of warm broth. “Take sips of it at a time, alright?”

A smile spreads across the alien’s green lips, and he lifts his arms up, an amusing attempt to reach for the bowl. The bounty hunter kneels in front of his ward and surrenders the meal. He smirks as the child takes a swallow, his eyes dreamy-looking as if the broth is the best thing he has tasted in a long time. The man’s smirk widens when he sees a little of the broth dripping down the baby’s wrinkly chin.

His gaze shifts over to where Talia is sleeping. After long hours of not knowing what she looked like underneath her fancy head-wrap, he allows his eyes to rake over her face and to finally study her.

She has a diamond-shaped face, with her narrow chin and wide cheekbones. Her nose is upturned, but it does not give her a snobby look about her. His eyes follow along her sharp jawline, and there are no traces of excess fat anywhere, not even in her cheeks. Her lips, dark pink and chapped, are thin as she presses them together in her sleep. He does not see any scars or blemishes, only smooth, tanned skin and a lone mole stationed below her right eye. Her dark brows compliment her lashes, somehow making her lips more noticeable. She looks like a graceful angel, tranquilly sleeping on the floor of his ship without a care in the world.

His own description of [Talia](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190651196928/chapter-x-revelations-from-my-weapon-my) makes him shake his head. Beauty and grace are not really cherished in the Mandalorian culture, and he is not one to judge a female by her looks. Mandalorian women are valued by strength and endurance. It is their ability to fight and to uphold their heritage through their children that are revered by their clan members. However, he cannot help but admit that Talia is . . . pretty. Even quite lovely.

As he settles on the floor beside the child, who is still sipping his broth, the bounty hunter takes in Talia’s face overall. He had not seen wrinkles or spotted any signs of her skin looking coarse, yet she is not as young as he had been imagining her to be. With her easy laughter and off-handed comments, he expected her to be in her mid-twenties or early-thirties. But as he gazes at her longer, taking in her mature face, she seems to be . . . well, around his age: early forties, perhaps a year or so younger. And that age bracket fits her, with her weathered stubbornness and deep wisdom. Though Talia may have spoken too quickly at times, her actions have been calculated and patient.

After a moment he tries to visualize a younger version of the Onderonian woman. He stretches his imagination to see if he can picture her to be around six or eight, and he comes up with a kind, innocent little girl with dark hair blowing in the wind. How old was she when her father abandoned her? He personally had lost his parents around ten and was saved by Death Watch. What was Talia doing while the Separatist Droids demolished his homeworld? Was she living on Onderon, or perhaps Dxun?

A lone roar resounds from outside the _Crest_. His back stiffens even though he guesses that it had come from across the small lake. But that fact alone does not stop his hand from resting on his blaster. The child’s ears quirk up, and he sets his now-empty bowl on the floor.

“We’re safe here,” he tells the kid. He is thankful that he and his companions are secured on his ship and that he can easily close the hatch door. Yet, he still feels anxious. He knows what the Nexu beasts are capable of, and he does not want to enter into another scuffle with one ever again.

He considers the possibility of just packing up his impromptu campsite, taking the _Crest_ off the planet, and hovering somewhere in Cholganna’s space away from the nebulae. But his eyes drift back to Talia. Space is cold, and even the Nexu skin drying outside will not be enough to make her warm and comfortable. No, he needs to stay where he is.

A sudden thought pokes at his brain: _Starlight_. Maybe he should take her to her ship after all. The _Crest_ is not very welcoming or accommodating—Talia is sleeping on the floor for Mandalore’s sake. Moving her is an option, but the ship is out of reach from where he is.

 _And it’s been ignored this entire time,_ he groans to himself.

For the past several hours Talia’s spacecraft has had its side hatch open and its ramp lowered. It has been left exposed to Cholganna’s elements, creatures, and insects, and he can only imagine what kinds of amphibians or reptiles have crawled inside it. The mere thought forces him to his feet. He cannot leave the ship unprotected, even though he doubts that any harm has actually come to it so far. But he is indebted to its owner; he is duty-bound to make sure that her possessions are cared for while she is incapacitated. If he cannot take Talia up from the _Crest_ , then he must bring _Starlight_ to her.

He sighs, his body starting to feel weary again. _Well, the ship isn’t going to move by itself. Get going._

With a grunt he rises to his feet and turns around. He is about to exit his ship when he hears a pitter-patter of small feet. He looks over his shoulder, spotting the child following him. The kid’s eyes are wide with adventure, as if he can sense where his guardian is going. A tiny smile forms on his green lips, and his pointy ears rise up.

Automatically, the Mandalorian wants to tell the baby to stay inside. His mouth opens, but he presses his lips together. He watches the kid take a few more steps and stop in front of him. The little one pauses for a few seconds, looking straight ahead, before he waddles past the man.

“Fine. You can come along,” he sarcastically mutters to his charge. He exits the ship, the child on his heels. “Just keep up, all right?”

After they walk off the loading ramp, the bounty hunter presses a button on his gauntlet, retracting it. As the door hisses closed, he thinks of Talia, picturing her as a pearl locked tightly away in the mouth of a clam. She had looked so peaceful while she slept.

He then turns on the _Crest_ ’s security with the touch of a button. If anything happens to the ship, or even inside it, he will know.

Hearing the soft steps of the child on the grassy field shakes the bounty hunter out of his reverie. The light from the orange moons allow him to see the baby walking away from him. The kid looks over his shoulder, his large eyes emanating impatience. Then, he jerks his little chin to the left, prompting the man to follow him.

“Hey, kid,” the Mandalorian says. He points to his right. “We’re going the other way.”

He does not check if the child is following him or not. His eyes focus on the silver ship reflecting the orange moonlight. He can hear his ward behind him, and he slows down his pace. Together, they walk towards _Starlight_. 

* * *

  
*** Introducing Nazanin Boniadi as “Talia of Onderon” ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, why did I choose an actress to play "Talia"? Or better yet, why did I specifically choose the lovely Nazanin Boniadi? Well, I had discovered Onderon from the game called "Knights of the Old Republic: The Sith Lords," and I fell in love with their culture. I did some reading on Onderon and discovered that the planet is loosely based on Middle Eastern and Eastern Indian culture, including the Onderonians' accent. So, to help me imagine a verbal sparring partner and temporary companion for Din Djarin, I started looking for actresses hailing from these cultures. I had wanted Talia--for reasons I will keep under wraps for now, Lol--to be slightly older, a factor that helped narrow down my search. And I stumbled across Nazanin Boniadi.
> 
> I had first seen Nazanin Boniadi in "Ben-Hur" (2016) playing the kind-hearted Esther. But I had honestly forgotten about her until I finally watched "Hotel Mumbai" (2018) about two months ago; she played the resilient "Zahra." She impressed me very much, and imagining her as "Talia" was so easy for me. I even got her picture and placed it next to one of Pedro Pascal, asking myself if I could see any kind of potential chemistry between them. And after a few moments of studying both actors, my answer was "yes."
> 
> Nazanin Boniadi is from Iran and was raised in England. I have watched her interviews and was struck by her lovely English accent which it lightly seasoned with her Iranian one. She was a perfect match for "Talia," and I am excited to insert her in "My Weapon, My Religion." I have so many plans for her, and I look forward to sharing them with you all!


	11. "Don't Touch Anything"

Chapter XI: "Don't Touch Anything"

_Starlight_ grows bigger and longer with every step he takes. Its metal covering is smooth and silver, a hue of orange from the moons tainting it. The ship’s front, where the cockpit more than likely is, protrudes forward just slightly. Its body is sleek compared to the _Crest_ , with extensive wings that remind him of a bird in flight. _Starlight_ ’s design and grandeur boast of wealth and station, making him believe that Talia has definitely lived in Onderon’s lap of luxury—compliments from her mother no doubt.

 _Or she could’ve stolen it,_ a cynical voice whispers to him.

He shakes off the thought, anchoring himself by gripping the handle of his blaster snugly secured in its holster. Talia may have barged her way into his business, but she does not strike him as a thief.

“Okay,” he breaks the silence of night, directing his words at the little green alien walking next him. “Once we get inside, we shouldn’t go snooping through Talia’s things. Nothing in there is ours, to mess with or to take. Got it?”

His head tilts downward so he can make sure that the child is listening to him. What he sees are shadows playing across his ward’s wrinkly face, but he identifies skepticism there. It stretches across the child’s usually innocent expression, which then causes his eyelids to half-close. His dark, squinted eyes look up at the bounty hunter, asking him what they are doing at this spacecraft in the first place.

“I’m just going to move this ship closer to the _Crest_ , okay?” the Mandalorian explains, feeling slightly offended. What did the kid think he was going to do? Steal the ship itself or the contents inside? The idea irks him. He does not consider himself to be a thief either.

Ignoring the lingering skepticism in the child’s eyes, he faces forward and continues walking closer to _Starlight_. They reach the elegant ship and stand right in front of the loading ramp. But he hesitates. For some reason, he feels as if he is intruding on Talia’s privacy. If _Starlight_ is to her in the same way that the _Crest_ is to him, then he knows that he will be waltzing into her safe haven, the place where she can let her guard down.

 _I may as well be a thief,_ he muses to himself, _stealing my way into her ship without permission._

With a deep breath, he pushes aside this train of thought. He is merely honoring his debt to the ship’s owner by taking care of her possessions, which just so happens to include _Starlight_ itself. By re-locating it closer to the _Crest_ , he may be able to move Talia inside her own ship so she can recuperate better, and faster.

 _Besides,_ he tries to convince himself, _if_ Starlight _is damaged or_ gets _damaged under my watch, then I’ll be stuck with her._ The alternatives are options that he does not look at with any kind of enthusiasm. He needs to do all he can—and as fast as he can—to pay his off life-debt to Talia. His present goal is to be free of her so he can focus more on the situation that he and the child have been in since they escaped Nevarro. After all, the little one’s safety has been his concern before the Onderonian’s path collided with his.

He places one boot on the loading ramp, his gaze focused above him at the open hatch. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he instructs the kid. “Something might’ve snuck inside in the last few hours.”

Broadening his shoulders, he marches up the ramp. He reaches the open door and stands underneath the threshold. His presence triggers the lights to turn on. Before him is a long hallway wide enough for two humanoids to walk through it, side-by-side without bumping into each other. Storage compartments and panels cover the pewter-colored walls of the ship, and he notes that there are three doors, one on his left and two on his right. However, he doubts they will lead him into any spacious rooms since the ship is a somewhat small vessel.

He takes a few steps further inside, and he hears the child’s shuffling behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he checks to see if the little one is indeed inside before he reaches for the control panel on his left and closes the hatch. It hisses shut, and his ears detect the sound of the ramp being withdrawn.

Satisfied, he walks down the hallway of the ship. He nears _Starlight_ ’s first door, on his right. It is open, and he peeks his head inside. His gaze sweeps across the room and identifies it as a storage area. It is a fairly large room, extending more to his left which makes him believe that it encompasses about half of the ship’s length. The room is filled with cargo containers, crates, and storage barrels all chaotically organized into a maze of black and grey. He wonders if the boxes belong to Talia or if they were just in here when she boarded her ship and fled from Onderon.

At the back, he spies a cargo door. On his left, tucked away into a corner, is a sleeping mat covered with blankets and pillows. The blankets have been messily kicked to the side as if Talia had scrambled out of bed and forgot to make her sleeping area look presentable. There is an open case stationed beside the thick mattress. It looks as if it exploded once it was opened, for clothes and other personal belongings spill out of it like a laundry explosion.

 _She must’ve packed in a hurry,_ he figures as he eyes the messy corner.

Behind him, he feels the kid bump into his lower leg. He looks down at him and says, “Let’s go to the next room, okay?” He maneuvers backward, careful not to step on him. “We’re not here to meddle in someone else’s things. This way,” he adds, motioning the kid to follow him further down the hall.

He passes by the closed door on his left, deducing that behind it is the cockpit. His focus is fixed on the thin door positioned in the right-hand corner of the hallway. He presses the panel beside it. The door slides open, revealing a tiny privy and personal washroom.

“All right,” he tells the child who is still standing underneath the threshold of the storage room. “Let’s head over to the cockpit.” He nods at the door he had passed over a minute ago, and the child waddles in that direction.

The Mandalorian strides to the door stationed in the middle of the hallway’s initial left side. With a flick of his wrist, he presses a button on the door’s panel. It swooshes open, and he comes face-to-face with a hologram of a strange animal hovering in the air.

From what he can figure, the creature looks like some kind of octopus, but it has only six arms instead of eight. There is odd webbing in between each of the octopus’ arms—or are they called tentacles? The hologram disappears in front of him, relocating to its original spot, right in the center of the cockpit. He notices that the octopus does not float as if suspended in water; nor does it move its arms in a swimming-like fashion. Instead, the creature stretches its long appendages for something to grasp before tossing itself like a swing onto solid foundation. Then it uses its arms to scurry around a bumpy terrain.

The footage of the creature plays over again in twenty-second intervals. It dawns on the bounty hunter that Talia must have left it like this when she first exited her ship hours ago.

“What is this?” he asks no one in particular. He turns to his ward, wanting to see if he is just as baffled. The unique baby stares at the hologram with big eyes and a joyful smile.

Curious to know more, the man walks through the projection towards the ship’s computer panel. He notes that the cockpit is almost twice the size of his, with two pilot chairs and two passenger seats. A screen featuring the odd octopus catches his eye. He touches it, and the computer beeps.

 _“[Arboreal octopus](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190800490338/heres-what-an-arboreal-octopus-looks-like-read),”_ the computer’s female voice reads off in Basic. He turns around to look at the hologram. It stills before moving again, this time in slow motion.

Behind him, the computer lists off: _“Classification: cephalopoid._

_“Description: six arms, webbing near arms, fur-like covering, suction cups underneath arms._

_“Homeworld: Cholganna._

_“_ _Diet: small rodents, birds, large insects, and occasionally other arboreal octopi._

_“Habitat: trees deep within the Cholganna jungles; they swing themselves from branch to branch. They are prey of the Nexu.”_

“Threat level?” he asks over his shoulder.

_“Question inadequate.”_

“What?” he snaps. It was a simple question, one that any hunter would ask. “Fine,” he huffs, knowing he will have to re-phrase his inquiry. “What are the octopi’s temperaments?”

 _“Clever,”_ the computer replies, he just realizes, with a thick Onderonian accent. _“Resourceful. Vicious when threatened. Gentle when tamed.”_

“Poisonous?”

_“Negative.”_

“Good,” he mutters as he reaches behind him to silence the computer. He also turns off the hologram, an action that causes the child to whine at the octopus’ sudden disappearance.

Not caring that the kid sends him a sour look, the Mandalorian slides into one of the pilot chairs. He checks the navigation computer, curious to know where Talia has taken her ship lately. Obviously, she had coordinates set for Cholganna, and he finds that she had not come straight from Onderon. Instead, she had arrived from Concord Dawn, a planet known to be one of the homes of Mandalorians.

Considering that Talia and Onderon seem to have intimate connections to his culture, he does not find her visit to Concord Dawn unusual. However, that planet is in the outskirts of the Mid Rim, a full territory away from Onderon. Why would she risk traveling alone? She does not even have some kind of protocol droid as a companion blindly following her around—not that he wanted to run into a walking, untrustworthy computer onboard her ship.

As he accesses _Starlight_ ’s travel logs, a shuffling noise behind him reaches his ears. Assuming it is the child exploring the cockpit, the bounty hunter ignores the sound and peruses the ship’s records. He discovers that Talia had been on Concord Dawn for less than a week; she was on a humanitarian mission with a small fleet of Onderonian ships. From the docking records, he reads that _Starlight_ had unloaded a generous supply of food, fabrics, clean water, and weapons. If he remembers correctly, Concord Dawn had gone through a severe drought during the last few years of the Galactic Empire.

 _Huh,_ he thinks to himself. _They must still be getting back on their feet._

He skims through the records, learning that Talia had left Concord Dawn about four days ago with _Starlight_ empty of its cargo. An image of the large storage room, filled with a mini-city of crates and barrels, flickers in his mind’s eye.

_Well, not all of the cargo is gone. Perhaps she's a thief after all._

Once again puzzled by the Onderonian woman’s behavior, he returns to the nav computer, looking for other destinations Talia had set beforehand. _Starlight_ had trekked across Onderon itself these past few months, traveling from one side of the planet to the other. He even notices that Talia had entered in the coordinates for Dantooine, another planet in the Outer Rim Territories. But she had not set a destination for Dantooine. It was as if she was simply curious to know its exact distance from Onderon.

 _Why would she want to go there?_ he wonders. _From what I heard, it’s not a very exciting place to be._ Other bounty hunters who had been to Dantooine claimed the planet had boring plains, pathetic farmers, and a dwindling species of Kath hounds. _Wasn’t a Rebel Base there?_

Before he can answer his own question, the shuffling behind him gets louder. The noise reminds him of a mix between thumping and sliding. He can hear the tiny pitter-patter of the child’s green feet, followed by an irritated whine.

“Don’t make me go back there,” he warns the kid.

Out of curiosity, he checks if _Starlight_ has any decent weapons installed. He will be stunned if his search comes up empty because if Talia is even remotely related to a Mandalorian, the urge to pull a trigger would be imprinted in her DNA. His fingers fly across the control panel, and he finds two cannons, both controlled by either the pilot or co-pilot. The weapons are small, and each drop from a hidden compartment located inside the ship’s wings.

“At least they’re there,” he mutters under his breath.

He hears the baby release another whine, but this time it does not strike him as being quite as childish. His gut twists like a piece of wet laundry being wrung to its limit. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he has not heard the baby make a sound like this before.

Annoyance and concern mix inside him. He turns around and finds his charge standing at the cockpit’s door, holding something rope-like and dark brown in his little green hands. Whatever it is, it looks long and furry as if it is some kind of weird tail. The rest of its body, he assumes, is just around the corner. The Mandalorian blinks, and in that instant the infant is quickly pulled out of the cockpit by that—whatever it is.

“Hey,” he calls out, dashing from his seat and going after him.

As he crosses the cockpit, he can hear strange thumbing and sliding noises, and he thinks he can detect some kind of suction sounds, too. A giggle followed shortly by a grunt echoes throughout the ship. In seconds, he reaches the doorway. He looks to his right, just in time to see the child once again disappear around the corner, straight into the storage room. The man races down the hallway and storms into the cargo area.

His hand settles on his blaster, his bare fingers finding solace in gripping the weapon’s cold metal. He surveys the room, whipping his head left then right. All he sees is the maze of storage boxes peppered across the room and Talia’s bed stashed in the corner. He hears the baby laugh then whine again, and the bounty hunter dashes to his right, around a tall stack of crates.

“Where are you?” he demands, turning left.

He plunges into the maze, with cartons and boxes surrounding him. Barely three steps into the labyrinth, he reaches a dead end. So, he turns around and takes another right instead. He then spots the kid, who is still clinging to that furry-looking thing.

“Let go,” he orders, but he is ignored. With wide eyes, he watches as the child is again pulled out of sight, disappearing behind more boxes.

Frustrated, he chases after the green alien. He is _not_ in the mood to play a game of Hide-and-Seek.

To help make his hunt easier, he jumps atop a box and climbs onto another so he can survey the maze from a higher vantage-point. The crates he balances on are about as tall as he is; they sway to the left, forcing him to distribute his weight evenly. He has no intention of crashing to the floor.

 _I’m too old for this,_ he thinks as he straddles the box beneath him, his feet dangling into the air like a child sitting on a thick tree branch.

Now steadily settled atop his perch, he swivels his neck and searches for any sign of two pointy, green ears. At his left, outside of the maze, he hears the kid say something in gibberish. The sliding-thumping noise grows louder, making him believe that it and the child are nearing his position.

Not wanting to lose his chance of snatching up his charge, the Mandalorian scrambles off the cargo. His boots hit the floor in a loud thud, and he runs in the direction he predicts the child will emerge from. He maneuvers through the labyrinth, turning right then left, reaching the back of the storage room. The hatch there is large, and he sees the panel that will more than likely open it if he pushes the correct buttons and flips the right switches.

At his right, the sliding-thumping sound gets closer, and he again hears those strange suction-noises. He takes a step forward and waits for his ward—and whatever the little one had been holding onto—to emerge from the maze’s perimeter. Two seconds pass until the green infant shuffles into sight, alone.

“You think that was funny?” the bounty hunter asks, a mixture of worry and annoyance coating his voice. He rushes to the kid, who meets the question with a guilty smile and drooping ears. “What was that thing anyways? I thought I told you not to touch anything,” his guardian scolds as he studies the baby for any scratches or injuries.

The youngling lifts up his arms, reaching for him, but the Mandalorian shakes his head. Instead, he places his hands on his hips as if he was a father about to lecture his offspring. _If he thinks I’m going to pick him up after that stunt,_ he bristles, _then the kid’s got another thought coming._

“No,” he stubbornly says. “You didn’t listen to me beforehand. And you should’ve let it go.”

The alien is still standing there with his arms lifted and says something in baby-talk—as if the man can actually understand him. His big eyes squint up at him, and his guardian can see determination shine in those brown orbs.

 _Something’s off,_ he figures as he crosses his arms.

“What?” he sighs, even though he does not know why he bothers. He will not be able to understand the child’s answer.

Tilting his head to the side, he then notices that the kid is not looking at him. And if anything, he never was. The kid has been fixated on something else, something behind _him_. So, with another sigh, the bounty hunter decides to turn around, only to come face-to-face with an Arboreal Octopus—a real one this time.

The furry creature is suspending in the air, and in the back of his mind, the man thinks that he does not remember the computer saying anything about the octopus having the ability to fly. The six-appendaged animal swings its arms at him, and one slaps at his helmet.

Quickly, the bounty hunter ducks and moves closer to the kid. Without thinking he picks him up and yanks out his blaster. As he points his weapon at the land-octopus, the kid grunts and squirms in his arms. He spares a glance down at the little one then back at the octopus. It then hits him that the kid had been keeping the animal suspended in the air this entire time.

“No way,” he breathes out in a whisper.

He feels his arm lower his blaster and holster the weapon, his gaze firmly studying the floating octopus. But he only has a few seconds to look at it, for the “hold” that the child has on the octopus is dwindling. The creature is dropping to the ground in a zig-zag fashion and is almost on the floor. The Mandalorian glances back at the child, seeing him drop his arms, his eyes staring hard at the octopus in concentration. He then realizes that he must have interrupted the gifted child and that his interference had been enough to distract him.

The octopus drops to the floor with a plop. It scuffles up against the cargo hatch of the ship, making that thumping and sliding sound. The man can clearly detect a steady flow of suction noises with every “step” the creature takes—a sound that now makes sense. The computer had said that the land-lover octopi had suctions underneath their arms, just like any other type of aquatic octopi.

In his arms, the child begins to squirm, but he tightens his grip on the little one. He doubts the creature enjoyed dragging his charge all throughout the maze in a merry chase. Besides, there is no way he is going to let the child go over there and again start pulling at one of the octopus’ arms until it comes clean off.

 _Are they really called arms or tentacles?_ he finds himself wondering. _Well, whatever they are, that’s not the point._

He sets the kid on a small crate on his right. “Stay put,” he says firmly. “I’m going to get that thing out of here.”

Even though the green alien frowns at him, he is thankful he does not move. The bounty hunter faces the land-octopus. It strikes him that this creature looks like any normal aquatic octopus with its long arms and bulbous head. The fur covering the creature is brown and as dark as rich soil. Its eyes are black and endless, and they shine like obsidian. The webbing between its arms fascinates him because, even this close to it, he still cannot see what the webbing is actually made of. Is it comprised of fur-covered muscles or cartilage? He feels the urge to run his fingers across the webbing and satisfy his curiosity.

As he takes a slow step towards it, he figures the octopus to be almost twice the size of the child. The creature twitches its arms, as if it is nervous. With his gaze focused on the octopus, he takes a step to his left; his destination is set for the hatch’s control panel. But the animal stupidly mirrors his movements instead of scurrying away in the opposite direction.

“Move,” he orders the octopus, waving an arm to his right, hoping the animal will feel scared enough to budge in that direction as a way of protecting itself.

But the octopus does not take the hint. It just stares at him with its surreal, black eyes. Again, the Mandalorian takes a step to his left, sweeping an arm in front of him, hoping the creature will shuffle in the opposite direction. But to no avail. It still mimics his own movement and thumps its way to the left with its back to the ship’s cargo door.

The man sighs in frustration. What should he do? Blast it? It will make kicking the octopus off the ship much easier. The temptation to retrieve his blaster and follow through with his instinct makes his fingers twitch. Then, he glances at the kid and sees him staring at the six-armed intruder with fascination.

 _No,_ he decides, shaking his head. He will not terminate the octopus and then toss its lifeless body off _Starlight_. He does not want the child to witness the killing of an animal who probably just wandered itself on-board without knowing what it was getting into.

 _“Vicious when threatened,”_ the computer’s voice hums in his brain. _“Gentle when tamed.”_

Well, he has no intention of adopting the land-octopus. Nor of taming it. He needs to change his hostile approach and replace it with a somewhat milder one instead. Maybe if the creature sees a way of escape, it will take it. The computer had said this species is clever.

An idea pops into his head, causing him turn on his heel, grab the child from his perch, and march out of the storage room. As he seals the door shut, his ward speaks in gibberish again and tries to wrestle himself out of the bounty hunter’s hold. In response, he tightens his grip on the child and waltzes back into the cockpit.

When he reaches the ship’s computer, he searches for the correct switch or lever to open up the cargo room’s large hatch. Hopefully, the octopus will slide and thump its six-armed body out of _Starlight_ once it sees the door open and the Cholganna jungle lying beyond.

He finds a button that says “Cargo” and presses it. There is a faint sound of metal screeching as the door opens, which makes the baby’s ears flicker up. The noise stops, and the Mandalorian waits, counting to thirty.

“You need to stop getting yourself into trouble, you little womp rat,” he says to the kid who has the nerve to look at him with innocent eyes and drooping ears.

After thirty seconds are up, he returns to the cargo hold. With the child still in his arms, he roams around the room, looking for the land-octopus. He takes great pains of being thorough as he searches through the labyrinth of crates and boxes; he does not want the animal to hide away somewhere and decide to live on _Starlight_ permanently—even though the thought of Talia unexpectedly running into it when she boards the ship again makes him smirk. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the child turning his own head left and right, also searching for his six-armed, furry friend.

By the time the bounty hunter reaches the open hatch, he has found no trace of the octopus. He sets the child on the floor and walks over to the control panel. His punches a button, ordering the door to close. The sound of groaning mechanics buzzes in the air. He keeps an eye on the hatch as it slowly hisses shut; he will not risk missing the possibility of another octopus sneaking inside the ship.

When the door closes, he turns around and finds the infant gone. He hears a rustling noise coming from the corner where Talia’s mattress is, and he hopes his ward is not making himself comfortable underneath the Onderonian’s blankets. He strides past the maze of boxes and over towards the corner. A reprimand is on the tip of his tongue, impatient to be released.

What he discovers is slightly worse than he imagined: the child is inside the case with Talia’s personal belongings, tossing clothes, shoes, shawls—everything—out onto the floor. The bounty hunter groans.

“Stop that,” he orders, snatching the kid and setting him on top of a nearby crate. He surveys the mess of fabrics and shoes scattered on the sleeping mat and cold metal floor. “Why’d you go do a thing like that?” He cannot stop the glare he sends the kid’s way as he [points](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190800472813/chapter-xi-dont-touch-anything-from-my) to him and grits out, “From now on, don’t touch _anything_.”

He bends down and gathers the discarded clothes. The fabrics are colorful, ranging from black to sunny yellow. Some feel soft and velvety while others are somewhat course. It appears that Talia had packed a variety of outfits to suit the right occasions. Dresses for formal gatherings, simple tunics and trousers, and also casual attire that remind him more for traveling or lounging around at home.

As he kneels on the hard floor, he spies a couple of pairs of shoes, like the delicate slippers Talia has been wearing. He even comes across a leather set of knee-high boots. Perhaps she is more realistic on apparel than he had given her credit for.

Once he tucks away all of Talia’s clothes back inside her luggage case, he hears the child coo. A click echoes in the storage room, and the Mandalorian releases an exasperated sigh.

 _Not again,_ he inwardly grunts.

Still kneeling on the metal floor, he can feel his bones grow weary and his muscles ache. It has been more than a few hours since his thirty-minute rest, and his body is draining of energy. He takes a deep breath and feels his abdomen groan out of soreness. Earlier, when he had cleaned himself up and changed his clothes, he had seen oddly shaped bruises decorate his chest and sides in ugly hues as if they were painted by an amateur tattoo artist. He can only imagine how much they have spread and deepened in color.

He needs to get some rest, and he suddenly feels his body yearn for sleep. But he still has a handful of things to do. He needs to re-locate _Starlight_ and park it next to the _Crest_. He has to make sure the child stays out of trouble. He will have to check up on Talia soon. And right now, he has to drag the child away from the crate that he just apparently opened.

 _And probably clean up after him,_ he grumbles.

“What did you do this time?” he demands as he turns himself around to face the little green alien.

In front of him, he discovers that the child had indeed opened one of the cargo boxes. He is on his tip-toes, peeking inside. His long ears are raised in curiosity, and his mouth is shaped into an “O”. The child points to the crate’s contents and looks up at his guardian.

The man scoots closer. Inside the box are six metal cannisters safely cushioned by foam packaging. He retrieves one and is surprised that it is not as heavy as he had been expecting. As he examines it, he notices that the container’s metal feels thick, and its lid is tightly sealed up. He shakes the cannister, hoping it will give him more clues as to its contents. He does not hear any rattling, but he feels there is something like sand inside. Curious, he twists the lid open then removes the covering. He tilts the container so the room’s lights can reveal its contents. Inside, there does appear to be sand like from the deserts of Tatooine, but it is softer, finer. It has a coppery color and almost glitters—

Quickly, he slams the lid back on and screws it shut. He puts the cannister in the crate as if it is some kind of disease. Pushing the child aside, the Mandalorian closes the crate. He stands up and glares at the container in disgust. That was not sand or ashes or even smooth soil. It can only be one thing.

_Spice._

* * *

Arboreal Octopus:


	12. Bedside Manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the weeks progress, I am thrilled to see that so many people are reading! Thank you to all for sticking with me. I know I am maintaining a slow pace in my story, and though I may not have crazy action-packed scenes, I can promise interesting revelations, character development, and an engaging plot. But I would not have been able to post my story and continue to write if it wasn't for you all, dear readers. Enjoy the next chapter!

Chapter XII: Bedside Manner

Early evening reigns across Cholganna, casting hues of golden yellow and dull orange. Its enduring light pours through the open side hatch of the _Crest_ , and the Mandalorian feels a soft wind enter and cut through the humid atmosphere. When the dawn had broken through the endless night, he had turned off the lights in his cargo hold, allowing the sun’s rays to illuminate the dark environs of his ship, but he knows he will need to activate them again and set them on low soon.

About twelve hours ago, right before the sun had come up, he parked _Starlight_ near the _Crest_. He grabbed the child and practically stormed off that silver spacecraft. The memory of finding not one but _three_ crates filled with spice drove him away, and he has not set foot on _Starlight_ since.

Wanting to keep the child close—and as far from any more trouble as possible—he took him back to the _Crest_ ’s cockpit and plopped him on the passenger seat. In less than twenty minutes, the special infant was sleeping. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter fiddled with his nav-computer before getting some rest himself. He did not wake until the sun was shining high over the ship, blinding him the moment he opened his eyes.

For the majority of the day, he was restless—mostly impatient for Talia to emerge from slumber. He tried to keep busy, feeding the child and himself, surveying the perimeter, and even going through some training exercises. He checked the Nexu skins, and when he found them dry, he used a chemical solution that would preserve the skins themselves. Afterwards, he allowed them to dry again and left them alone for a few more hours.

While he looked over his gloves, making sure they were completely dry after being washed, he could not stop thinking about the Onderonian woman unconscious on his ship. She was a mystery with her intriguing accent, Mandalorian roots, and the alarming amount of spice taking up residence onboard her ship. As he shoved his gloves on, all he could think about was remembering that he counted at least eighteen cannisters of the powered drug on _Starlight_. So, it irked him to realize that he was half-successful in keeping his mind occupied.

Nearly an hour ago, he gave the child an early dinner. Within minutes his charge settled in his cargo box-bed and was snoozing. A smirk played on the bounty hunter’s lips as he watched the child’s pointy ears flap downward and spasm every few seconds. He had retrieved the newly preserved female [Nexu skin](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/190918959503/chapter-xii-bedside-manner-from-my-weapon-my) and laid it over the green, sleeping body of his charge. A satisfied smile twitched across the child’s mouth, making the bounty hunter inwardly chuckle.

Now, he is sitting on a storage box, which he had stationed less than three feet away from Talia. He knew she would be waking up soon, and he has every intention of being close by when she does. He had just finished cleaning his Amban sniper rifle and is currently doing the same with his blaster.

Every so often his eyes will flicker over to where the mysterious woman is sleeping. After the child had dozed off, the Mandalorian covered Talia with the male Nexu skin. It looks huge draping over her petite body. The soft fur is so white that it makes her tanned complexion seem pale in comparison. With each breath she takes, the ebony stripes ripple, as if her breaths are giving life to the ghostly skin of the feline.

He shakes his head. His blaster is disassembled, and he is cleaning the individual parts with an oily rag. His rifle had been filthy, its grooves and cylinders layered with dirt and grime. He guesses he should be thankful he actually has the time to polish both of his prized weapons, but he cannot stop from thinking that he would not be here, stranded on Cholganna, if he did not choose to stay so he can take care of a female Onderonian who just so happened to be a spice user. A tiny part of him wishes he left her there, lying unconscious on the field. What might have eased his conscience was that he is fairly certain she would have survived her injury since it was not as serious as he had imagined.

 _You don’t mean that,_ a small voice inside his head chides him. It sounds eerily like his Tribe’s Armorer. _You had to help her. She saved your life, and honor demands that you repay her. This is the way._

His back stiffens at the reminder. After he—more like the baby—found the container of spice, the bounty hunter could not stop himself from looking into another box. He supposes he was hoping not find more of the drug, but he had been disappointed. He opened a total of three containers stocked with spice, a discovery that made him slam the lids shut.

 _Spice,_ he grimaces at the memory of the coppery-colored dust.

To him, using the drug, allowing oneself to become so dependent on it to the extent of slavery, is dishonorable. It messes with the senses and plunges the user in a cloud of fantasy. Quick reflexes are turned into gel, leaving the addict helpless. Spice twists the mind, and sharp thinking is nearly impossible because it can transform the clearest intellects into a thick mash of porridge.

A person’s integrity is compromised, sometimes beyond recognition, making its victims unstable, unreliable—dangerous. He has seen the lengths that addicts will take in order to secure their next flight from reality. Spice has been used as a distraction, an escape from regrets, fears, traumatic pasts. Instead of facing their problems, its victims would consume the coppery powder and embrace its so-called security. The drug is so addictive, and its withdrawals so awful, that he has heard some people would rather end their misery, permanently, if they could not get their hands on it.

He eyes Talia. For a few hours, he had believed her to be a user. From her nightmares he suspects she has a handful of demons or ghosts from her past that torment her. She might be using spice as a solution to end her restless nights of despair and loneliness. If she had suffered during the Clone War like him, she would be accosted by battle droids and artillery fire at every turn with nowhere to run or hide. If she had lost loved ones to warfare, like he lost his parents, they would visit her, haunting her with happy memories only to see them brutally ripped from her over and over again.

With her obvious wealth, Talia can easily procure spice for herself. But if she is a user, even a “casual” one, then her body should have been going through withdrawals by now. And so far, she has not experienced the obvious symptoms related to someone quitting spice. If she did, then he should be cleaning up vomit, trying to lower her fevers every few hours, and watching her hands shake uncontrollably, even in her sleep.

 _No,_ he decides, shaking his head. _She doesn’t use spice. But what’s she doing with three boxes of it?_

Its presence on _Starlight_ disgusts him, and his view of her had dropped a few notches. He thought she was honorable like any Mandalorian; and her character, from what he has seen of it, has shown him that she is. He has met many people sworn to their Creed who have spat at the mere mention of spice, who have shared the same view as him. He just made the serious mistake of believing that Talia had come from the same cloth. He needs to face the fact that the spice on her ship means she is either a spice runner or smuggler—and both options discredit any kind of admiration he may have felt towards her.

_Great, I’m indebted to a spice runner._

_But if she’s that, or even a smuggler,_ he finds himself arguing, _why would she have the drug in plain sight?_ _Sure, it’s in boxes, and it’s hiding in that unorganized mess in storage. But shouldn’t it be stashed underneath the floorboards? Or buried in some secret compartments inside_ Starlight _itself?_

He remembers that the Empire was notorious for hunting down anyone known dealing with the drug. So, smuggling and hiding the spice cargo were obvious methods. Being caught with it onboard a ship meant the death penalty. But with the Empire gone, the New Republic has been too busy trying to get on its feet to even bother taking spice seriously.

On Onderon, the powdery substance had been declared illegal for centuries, a fact he learned from using the computer on Talia’s ship. He also discovered that Concord Dawn also forbids the trade even though the planet’s government is somewhat lax in enforcing the regulation. If Talia is in the spice business, then he suspects she must have loaded the product from Concord Dawn and was tasked with smuggling it out.

 _So, why is she on Cholganna?_ he wonders, assembling his clean blaster once again. _Does she have buyers here?_

The idea of Talia and spice in one thought seems ridiculous. Why is he still entertaining this bizarre hypothesis? Besides, he had figured out before their fight with the Nexu that she was running away from something. By evading his question on why she fled her homeworld, by answering with “That’s personal,” she so much as admitted it.

He clicks in the last piece of his blaster. Holding it in front of him the Mandalorian studies his assembled weapon, making sure everything is as it should be. It gives off a slight glimmer, and he runs his dirty cloth over it one more time, in case he missed a smudge.

His ears pick up a rustling sound, and it registers to him that Talia is finally beginning to stir. He freezes, eyeing her closely. It has been almost fifteen hours since she had woken up and mistook him as her father, and he has waited too long to get answers out of her. For a moment, he wants to shake her so she can wake faster, but he stomps on that urge. He cannot rush her into revealing more about herself no matter how much he wants to. No, he will have to be patient and tactful if he expects to receive a truthful explanation from her.

As she squirms, her head digging into her sack pillow, he holsters his blaster and tosses the cleaning rag aside. Her slim fingers, stained with a pink hue from her dry blood, run through the fur of the Nexu skin. He notices how her long, mossy-green sleeves soften the brightness of the white pelt, enhancing the black stripes. His gaze travels to her diamond-shaped face, all tanned and free of blemishes. Her dark brows scrunch together, and she blinks her eyes open for a few seconds before closing them again.

He waits, watching her force her eyes to cope with the evening light streaming through the open hatch of the _Crest_. Her gaze focuses on the rays of sunlight before roaming to the left, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. Eventually, her eyes land on him, and he feels himself sit up just a little straighter.

“The . . . the youngling?” she croaks out, her Onderonian accent struggling to break through the thick silence of the cargo hold.

“Safe. And unharmed,” he says. As he points to where the kid is sleeping inside his box, the bounty hunter ignores his approval for her rise half a notch at her concern for the child. He feels it rise another half-notch when Talia looks at the baby and sighs in relief.

A moment passes as she surveys the kid settled in his box-bed, covered in a white fur blanket. Her eyes squint as she asks, “Is that . . .?”

“The Nexu?” he fills in. “Yeah. It’s the female. I gave you the male,” he adds, now pointing to the large pelt covering her.

At this, Talia looks down and blinks. “You’ve been busy,” she notes, sending him a small smile.

“I prefer it that way,” he admits.

She lifts her gaze to him, concern wrinkling her smooth forehead. “How are you? Any injuries?” she asks. He can see in her eyes that she is still tired despite sleeping half a day away, yet she somehow manages to look worried about him.

“I’m fine,” he tells her in the most dismissive tone he can muster. “A little banged up, but I’m fine. You need to worry about yourself,” he says, motioning to his side as a way to indicate her injury without touching her.

She looks down, removes the Nexu skin and blanket underneath, and spies the long Bacta patch covering up her wound. He watches as her fingers delicately skim across the patch.

“How bad is it?” she inquires, clearing her throat.

“You’ll live,” he dryly answers, and she hums at his response.

“Your bedside manner astounds me,” she teases him, covering herself up with her two bedspreads, and he cannot stop the smirk from playing at the corner of his lips.

“Give or take a day or so, and you’ll be good,” he informs her. “But I should probably scan your injury later on, to see how your healing’s coming along.”

She gives him a nod then sits up on her elbow. A few strands of flyaway hairs sway in the humid air and brush against her cheeks. Her dark eyes fix on where his visor is covering his eyes as she whispers, “Thank you.”

Her accent is as light and elegant as he remembered it to be, and he again wonders if everyone from Onderon talks like her. There is so much sincerity, so much kindness packed in those two, little words that he momentarily forgets how distrustful he was of her, how annoyed he felt whenever she asked him to remove his helmet. She is still the considerate Talia that he had met nearly twenty-four hours ago, and it dawns on him that this is the first time they have managed not to enter into an argument or stalemate during their conversations. Despite himself, he actually likes this side of the Onderonian woman.

Still not sure how to respond to her genuine gratitude, the bounty hunter simply gives her a nod. “How are you feeling right now?” he asks, allowing himself to show some kind of concern for her. “Any pain?”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head softly. “I’m just sore. And stiff.”

He pretends not to assess her rigid posture as she tries to straighten her shoulders and back muscles. A twinge of guilt presses at his conscience. He knows only too well how uncomfortable and unforgiving the metal floor of the _Crest_ is. Knots and stiff muscles intrude all over the body and make one’s movement limited for hours, sometimes days. No doubt Talia will be dealing with those during her recovery period. He really should invest in a sleeping mat—for himself that is.

“I don’t have bed-rolls,” he offers as a weak apology. “And I didn’t want to move you once I got you patched up.”

“That’s all right,” she says while stifling a yawn. “I’ve slept on much worse.”

As he watches her wipe away the lingering sleep from her eyes, he is on the verge of asking if she could expand on what “much worse” meant, but when she moves her hand across her face, he holds his breath. She stills, and her eyes widen ever so slightly. He releases his breath when he sees the instant that she realizes her head-wrap has been removed and is now lying across her shoulders like a scarf.

“You took it off yourself,” he casually explains, gesturing to her head.

“I did?” she asks, her voice quiet and scratchy again. “When?”

“Early this morning. It wasn’t even light outside.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. With her guard down, he wants to see just how much he can get out of her. “You had a fever. And a nightmare. It looked pretty intense.”

She sends him a wobbled smile. “The fever or the nightmare?”

“Both,” he replies. When she chuckles, he does not stop the half-smile forming on his own lips. “I tried to wake you,” he explains. “You looked at me and called me . . . ‘Babba.’”

At this revelation her eyes widen even more. His spine snaps to attention as he watches Talia sit up, clutching her side, as if doing so will prevent her wound from splitting open.

“You tore off your wrap fast,” he quickly shares, hoping it will distract her from doing something extreme, like standing up. “And then you asked me if I came back for you.”

Several seconds pass, and Talia says nothing. Her expression is calm, yet he can detect the smallest hint of sadness chiseling itself across her forehead. She pulls off the head-wrap from around her shoulders, the gold ornaments twinkling in the evening light. She then folds her legs underneath her.

As she sets the green fabric to the side, she clears her throat. Her Onderonian accent is quiet, seasoned with intrigue, as she asks him, “What else did I say?”

He shrugs then crosses his arms. “Not much. I was more focused on you getting some more sleep than posing as your father.”

When she drops her eyes and chooses to pay attention to her fingers running across the black stripes of the Nexu fur, he inwardly kicks himself for his poor bedside manner. He is supposed to coax the enigmatic woman into opening up, not put a wall between them.

“I don’t remember any of this,” he hears her say.

Before he can stop himself, before he can even think of a calculated response, he dishes out in his no-nonsense bounty hunter tone, “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

 _You clumsy Gamorrean,_ he berates himself. _Fat chance in getting on her good side now._

His gloved hands form into tights fists, and he hides them beneath his armpits. Staring hard at the floor, he can feel frustration settle over him. What was he thinking? He had sounded like a disapproving superior, wanting to hear an explanation from an unexperienced aide before issuing a series of armor-cutting reprimands and excessive punishments. No one will want to share more of their past when their listener has an attitude like that. He might have damaged his best chance to learn more about Talia.

While his mind scrambles for ideas so he can mend the conversation in his favor, he hears Talia ask him in a louder but still calming voice, “What have you figured so far?”

Immediately, his head snaps up. If his helmet was off, she would see him looking at her with confused eyes. Why would she offer him an invitation like this after he carelessly stomped on the somewhat friendly turn their discussion had taken? She should be wrapping herself in a shawl of mystery instead of giving him an opportunity to glean more information from her.

With a hand still stroking the Nexu pelt, Talia sends him a side-glance, her eyes looking darker as the sun’s rays begin to dim. Despite the fact that she cannot see him behind the silver Beskar, he is determined to wear a neutral expression, so he presses his lips together and gives her steady eye-contact. To appear unbothered by her question, he uncrosses his arms and rests his elbows on his knees, allowing his body to relax.

As she waits for him to say something, he begins to wonder if, perhaps, she is testing him. Can it be that she is curious to know if his observation skills are detailed and accurate? Any decent bounty hunter _should_ possess such rational traits, especially if that person gained a notable reputation like his. Talia, he knows, is observant and has the talent of effortlessly drawing information from him—most of it against his will. And right now, it seems as if she is giving him a chance to do the same with her.

Yesterday she was a clean slate to him, a blank, white canvas. Her Onderonian background added foundation and texture. But the spice, her fleeing Onderon, and her Mandalorian roots stained her snowy canvas with ebony stripes, which stacked up against her as if to diminish the aura she emanated.

But even with these so-called blemishes, he is intrigued. Though not a bounty hunter, she seems as clever as one—and has the potential to be as dangerous as someone from his line of work. And even if she is not a true Mandalorian, he figures she can be as mercenary as the rest of those hailing from his Creed, lending skills to those with the deepest pockets. The spice is enough to tell him that. She was probably unpopular amongst her fellow Onderonians because of these traits. But to him, they are features to be prized.

 _And I’m not going to waste this chance to learn more about her,_ he thinks with determination. He stops leaning on his elbows and crosses his arms again. _I’m going to dig as deep and as fast as I can._

“Your father’s a Mandalorian,” he starts in an even tone. “My guess: he was always wearing his helmet while you were growing up. It’s probably imprinted in you to see him like that because, whether it was your fever or your nightmare, you saw me as him when you woke up.”

He waits, curious to see how she reacts. Although she says nothing, he catches the way her hand falters in petting the Nexu fur before she continues to stroke it at a leisurely pace.

As Talia sits there, he cannot help noticing how much she personifies the phrase “warrior princess” with her posture rigid and exhausted from an extended campaign and with a calm and regal expression, one she would wear if she presided over a court. She lifts a hand, and his gaze follows it as she runs it over the back of her neck, grabs her long braid, and pulls it over her shoulder.

“Anything else?” she presses. And if they were in a royal court, he would interpret her question as a command meaning, ‘Please continue.’

His first impulse is to brush her off, to stubbornly refuse to be dictated to like a subject receiving a command from his monarch. But when he looks into her eyes, he notices that they are gentle and are only asking him to share more of his findings and deductions.

“You didn’t call your father ‘ _buir_ ’,” he points out, pushing forward. “You more than likely weren’t close to him. Since you asked if he came back for you, I’ll take it he abandoned you—and your mother, if she was still alive at the time.

“You said, ‘Babba,’ which is probably what Onderonians call their fathers. I gather your mother was very influential during your up-bringing. From your jewelry and expensive clothes, I’m willing to bet she’s royalty. But from your Mandalorian jewelry, I’d be also willing to bet that your father was rich, too. Maybe even a chief of your Clan.”

Again, he pauses, giving her a moment to let all of this sink in. Talia had lowered her eyes to study the child as he spoke, but he knew she was still listening. Her fingers are fiddling with the end of her thick, blackish braid, twisting it over and over again in a never-ending spiral.

“Your Clan is Kex,” he continues. “I _would_ say that you’re in charge of it, since you have really important looking jewelry, but . . . that can’t be.”

Now, she turns to face him, an eyebrow lifted with wonder and a slight frown forming on her dark, pink lips.

“It’s because you’re not a Mandalorian, not really,” he elaborates. “I doubt you’ve even sworn yourself to the Creed.”

Feeling quite proud of his predictions, the bounty hunter uncrosses his arms and sets his hands on his knees. Talia’s eyes scan across his face—or helmet, since she cannot see through the Beskar, and he wonders why she still bothers doing it. Her eyelids are half-close, which gives him the sense that she is impressed with what he has figured out about her. He watches as her gaze shifts over to the jewelry pieces that he had placed on top of the cargo box next to her; they sparkle with cleanliness and wealth. Then, she lowers her gaze and spies her vibrorapier, also polished and free of Nexu blood.

“You _have_ been busy,” she chuckles, more to herself than to him.

“I can’t sit still,” he admits before kicking himself for practically repeating his words from earlier. He catches a soft smile forming on her lips, and he almost thinks his repetitiveness is worth it—that is, because he is getting her to relax. When she does not say anything, he prompts, “Am I right?”

“Partially.”

“About what?”

Talia stops fiddling with her braid and places her hands on her lap. A tired sigh escapes her, and he catches her gaze lifting up towards the _Crest_ ’s ceiling as if she is trying to figure out the right words to say. So, he merely waits; he has a feeling she will open up. She just needs a little bit of time.

After a few moments, she opens her mouth to say something when he hears her stomach growl instead. Like a clam, she shuts her mouth closed. And are her cheeks flushing pink?

“I made some stew,” he finds himself offering.

She looks at him, sheepishly. “I admit I’m so hungry I can eat an entire Bantha.”

“Fresh out,” he replies, trying not to have his smile affect his tone. “I’m stocked with Nexu though.”

Her eyebrows lift up. “How does it taste?”

With a shrug he answers, “Decent. Want some?”

“I’ll eat anything right now,” she confesses, her cheeks still painted with an embarrassed blush.

He nods and rises to his feet. Towering over her, he demands more than requests, “Food for answers.” He cannot have her to wiggle her way out of not answering him, not after he finally coaxed her to open up.

Craning her neck so she can look at him, Talia answers with a dignified nod of her own, “Deal.”


	13. Talia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking forward to this chapter, which is why I finished it a day earlier than expected. Enjoy!

Chapter XIII: Talia

They are outside, all three of them sitting around a dwindling fire. The Cholganna sun lazily drops to the western horizon, its rays still golden and giving off plenty of light. The small lake shimmers like liquid sapphire, reflecting the sun’s radiance. All around them, the dark green forest and insects hum with life. Every other minute a high-pitched screech rises above the chorus of the jungle, making the bounty hunter lay a hand on his blaster as a precaution. Beside the trio, the _Crest_ stands strong like a metal guardian while _Starlight_ rests about a stone’s throw away from them, acting as their silver-winged scout.

With nothing to do at the moment, the Mandalorian pokes at the campfire then sends a glance at the sleeping child. The little one had barely noticed that the levitation mechanism of his box-bed had been activated and that both he and it were re-locating outside. Before his guardian had left the ship, he decided to take the child with him as he assembled a meal for Talia. He thought she would prefer not to have an audience if she decided to use the privy or to do whatever else women do once they wake up. Anyways, he allowed her to take advantage of not having male company. He even left her a canteen of water, a bowl, and cleaning cloths if she chose to freshen up.

After waiting at his campsite for less than ten minutes, the bounty hunter had glanced at the _Crest_ ’s entrance and found Talia, with a hand still clutching her side, slowly making her way down the ramp. He saw that she had used her head-wrap to cover the rips in her tunic, tying the fabric with a knot at her hip. Her velvety clothes bounced off the light, and even he could tell that her legs quivered with every step she took.

Without thinking, he strode up the ramp, met her half-way, and offered to help—well, he really did not offer; he told her that she needed it. She had shaken her head at him in amusement, but she sent him a grateful smile and accepted his help. So, he slid a hand underneath her elbow and guided her down the ramp. He could not help but notice that her hands were no longer tinted pink from her blood and that she had donned her jewelry again.

Once she was seated on top of a cargo box, he served her some stew. He was content with the silence between them as he scanned the perimeter, keeping a watch for more Nexu or Arboreal octopi—both creatures he would rather not run into again. But Talia asked him to tell her what he had been up to since she passed out the day before. At first, he thought it was her way of wiggling out of not answering him from their conversation minutes before. It would have been a good deflection and distraction. However, he figured she merely wanted more than jungle rustlings and insect hissings to listen to while she ate. So, he indulged her, giving her a brief report on his activities.

Between bites of the Nexu stew and sips of the shig he had brewed for her, Talia was grateful that he moved her ship closer by. She complimented him on the tea and was impressed with the stew, saying she thought the Nexu meat was more than “decent.” He had smirked at that but simply nodded.

The sunlight has only dimmed a little by the time Talia sets her bowl and spoon aside. She clears her throat before she says, “So, you wanted to know what part of your calculations about me are correct.”

After he had poked at the fire a few minutes ago, he had turned his back to Talia so he could stare at the water while he waited. Hearing her revert his attention back to their conversation, he swivels his body around so he can face her.

“First off, I want to say that you are a clever bounty hunter. You use your mind well,” she praises him, and he ignores the way that his pride inflates ever so slightly at this.

“My mother was rich,” she begins, “and a member of the Onderonian aristocracy. I adopted her culture because her family was the only welcoming family I had.” She pauses, glancing down at her gold jewelry. “As you guessed, my father abandoned me. I was fourteen at the time. My mother had died during the Clone War when Onderon was fighting against the Separatists so they could restore the monarchy.”

When she fingers her gold ring, the one engraved with ‘My Starlight’ on its band, he feels uncomfortable. A sense of victory at being right so far wants to inflate his pride just a little more, but it does not seem appropriate at the moment. He should probably say something, perhaps give his condolences, but he does not know Talia well enough to do that.

“My father,” she continues, saving him, “was a hard man to get along with. Like my mother, he was relatively rich, but he was more influential. At some point, he became the chief of Clan Kex. So,” she lightly chuckles and meets his gaze, “you are right about him because I am half-Mandalorian.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You can’t be,” he states, not caring if he sounds condescending. “You’re either Mandalorian or not. There’s no in between. We’re not a people. We’re—”

“A Creed,” she cuts in, her voice calm and patient. “Yes, so some say. But it’s not like that on Dxun and Onderon.”

Taken aback, he crosses his arms and has to stop himself from glaring at her. “Well, it’s the way that it’s always been.”

“Not anymore,” she sighs.

Talia reaches for her shig and sips at her warm tea. He has a feeling her explanation will be lengthy, so he uncrosses his arms and sits on a cargo box of his own. Next to him, the child is sleeping. Seated directly across from him, Talia skims her index finger across the rim of her cup, sliding it in slow, smooth circles.

“Over thirty-five hundred years ago,” she opens up, “Mandalorians settled on Dxun. Naturally, Onderonians saw them as a threat. They were enemies for ages.

“You know that Dxun is one of four moons rotating around my planet. But what you may not know is that Dxun is so close to Onderon that during a certain season, Dxun shares our atmosphere. Birds or winged animals large enough can even fly from one to the other. That’s why Onderon felt threatened by Mandalorians. They could have easily invaded on a whim.

“But what was a concern had eventually become the tie that bound my two cultures.” She sets her cup of shig down and begins to play with her gold bracelets. “Our ways slowly mingled together. Onderon is a planet ruled by a monarchy where blood ties are important—valued above everything else.”

“But that’s not for Mandalorians,” he interjects even though he knows that she is aware of this. “That doesn’t matter to us. The bonds we share with one another are what lasts longer. It’s the reason why the Clans have survived.”

“Yes,” she agrees with a slow nod. “But as time passed, blood ties became important to the Clans on Dxun, too. Onderonians and Mandalorians intermarried. Some people joined the Clans while others stayed loyal to the monarchy. But those on both Dxun and Onderon highly value blood ties,” she claims, her gaze lifting to meet his. “They care about background and family names and ancestral history. There are even some Mandalorians who serve as guards for the royal family, even if some are mercenaries.”

She had muttered the last part of her speech, and he thinks he catches a hint of disappointment buried there. At the back of his mind, he wonders what she thinks of Dxun Mandalorians who decided to pursue bounty hunting instead of acting as bodyguards for her precious monarchy.

“I am half-Mandalorian and half-Onderonian,” she declares as her back straightens with pride. “My full name is Talia Dewan Kex, daughter of Galia Dewan of Onderon and of Tezok Kex of the Dxun Clan, Kex.”

He stares at her, not sure what to think. Hearing a brief history between Onderon and Dxun was interesting—he will admit that. But if Talia believed her lengthy name and half-breed background would either intimidate or impress him, then she is sorely mistaken. A long time ago, he has learned to assess people, especially Mandalorians, by their actions, skill-sets, and character traits. He is not one to care about family and background, even if he finds Talia’s complicated and intriguing—especially about her father.

 _How can a Chief leave his own daughter?_ he finds himself wondering.

“Why’d your father walk out?” he asks.

Talia stops playing with her bracelets, but she does not meet his gaze. Instead, she studies the lingering flames of the campfire, her dark eyes reflecting the glow of the embers. There is look about her that reminds him of the moments when he is transported back in time to the day when he lost his parents. Like it was yesterday he remembers the denial he felt when they were killed, the wail catching in the back of his throat, the sense of complete and utter loneliness consuming him like a vacuum.

“He just did,” she quietly says. Her voice had been so low he would not have known that she had spoken if he was not studying her, watching her lips move. “My mother’s death changed him. He loved her so much—more than me, I think. He claimed I disgraced him, and that was all the excuse he needed. So, one day, he just left. But I saw it coming, and I,” she sucks in a breath, “I didn’t stop him.”

“Then he isn’t a true Mandalorian,” he remarks, not bothering to hide the resentment he feels towards a supposed Clan leader.

A whimper coming from the child penetrates the silence between him and Talia, which causes the bounty hunter to rise to his feet and walk over to his ward. It is unusual for the child, who is a heavy sleeper, to make noises during slumber. He towers over the hovering box-bed containing his ward. A small frown is plastered across the child’s lips, so he decides to wake him from, what is more than likely, a nightmare. He reaches for one of his ward’s pointy ears and rubs its end with his gloved fingers.

Behind him, he hears Talia mutter under her breath, “That’s debatable.”

He wants to scoff at her response. To think that she is defending, albeit half-heartedly, the man who had abandoned her when she was fourteen years old. He figures almost thirty years have passed since she last saw him, and he wants to shake his head at the realization that she has not accepted the fact that her father is no more useful than a hairless Eopie stranded on Hoth.

Looking down, he sees the child yawn, his little mouth forming a long “O” before he opens his brown eyes. The man wonders if the kid had been dreaming of his friend, the land octopus, and watched him being kicked off _Starlight_ again. He smirks at the thought as the kid’s gaze, full of sleep and exhaustion, lands on him.

“You okay?” the bounty hunter double-checks. The youngling just stares up at him then tries to crawl out of his box-bed. So, his guardian grabs him and sets him on the ground.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Talia softly teases the child who, once he sees her, waddles over to where she is sitting. “What have you been up to, youngling?”

The Mandalorian shakes his head and moves back to his cargo box. He has not told her about the kid’s run-in with the land octopus on her ship, nor about how he had to re-pack her clothes and shoes after the kid threw them out of her luggage. She did not have to know about any of that. Besides, he has zero desire for her to figure out that he is awful at being a guardian and baby-sitter. Yet he still wants to bring up the subject of all that spice sitting in her cargo hold.

Poking at the dying embers with a stick, he manages to resurrect a small burst of flames. About half of the sun has disappeared in the horizon, and he figures they have less than an hour left of natural light. He had run out of wood, having used his last stockpile for this fire, and he stifles a groan. He knows what he will be doing first thing tomorrow morning.

He glances at the two figures in green sitting across from him. How can he broach the topic of spice in a way that will get her to reveal to him why she has it onboard her ship? He watches as Talia, who has the child stationed next to her, talks to the infant about how amazing he was at the end of the Nexu fight.

With his own attention now captured, the bounty hunter interrupts her and asks, “What _did_ the kid do with the beast? Or didn’t you see it?”

She looks at him and nods. “Yes, I saw it before I fell unconscious. What do _you_ think he did?”

He stops stoking the fire and thinks, trying to remember what he saw the day before. “It looked like he . . . touched the Nexu’s mind. As if he influenced it not to attack,” he adds. But the idea sounds absurd. How was that even possible? His experience tells him that it should be unimaginable. Frustrated, he gives his head a violent shake, wanting to dismiss what he saw as pure luck.

“I believe that is what he did,” Talia says, and his eyes lock onto her. She runs a finger across the little one’s long ears as she explains, “It seems the youngling formed a . . . mental bond with the Nexu. Did you see him stretching his hand towards it? The Nexu was fighting his intrusion; her instinct to attack us was so strong. But the youngling fought back, and he gave you enough time to save him.” She glances up at him. “Nice throw by the way.”

He nods, but Talia had already turned her attention back onto his ward. She does not say anything more to the kid. It is as if his interruption broke the comradery between the pair, leaving Talia without something to talk about. A cool breeze blows through the moist atmosphere, and he is thankful the wind cuts through the humidity. Cholganna nights are much more pleasant than its days, with cooler temperatures and clearer air.

Silence lingers among the trio like a thick cloud. What should he say to her now? He admits he has not been the best conversation partner since they relocated outside the _Crest_. He needs to build up some kind of comradery between Talia and himself if he wants to figure out why she fled Onderon, why she is interested in the child, and why she is in the possession of spice.

“Clan Kex, huh?” he asks, leaning on the subject that links them. “Never heard of you guys before.”

Talia lifts her eyes to look at him. “Our ancestor was a man called Tagren Kex. He lived about three thousand years ago. He had fought during the Mandalorian Wars and eventually settled on Dxun afterwards. He served under a man named Canderous Ordo, who actually became—”

“Mandalore the Preserver,” he supplies. He knows of Canderous all too well. The warrior was famous in his Tribe, the talk of legend. Canderous had been the first and only clan member from Ordo to ever be a Mandalore.

“You’ve heard of him?” Talia asks in amazement, her eyebrows raised. “I wouldn’t think many Mandalorians outside of my homeworld would have even known him.”

“Well, I do.” He shrugs, feeling a twinge of glee for surprising her.

Talia squints her eyes, surveying him with a hint of suspicion. “Which Clan do you belong to?”

“Nah-ah,” he reprimands with a shake of his head. “You’re the one going first on this. Food for answers, remember?”

The dark-haired woman opens her mouth to retaliate, and he readies himself for a disagreement to commence between them. He waits, crossing his arms. But she must have changed her mind because she simply nods at him.

“Tagren Kex,” she continues, “served under Canderous, and his family had strong ties to Clan Ordo. Eventually, Clan Kex swore fealty to Ordo. But over the years, Kex became so large that Ordo freed them from their oath and declared Kex as a brother Clan.

“Blood became stronger than bond,” Talia explains again, “and my father’s family has continued its line. Tagren Kex was our patriarch, and I am one of his direct descendants.”

Feeling slightly impressed, the bounty hunter nods at her. She gives him a ghost of a half-smile then takes in a breath to continue.

“Even though Kex became an independent Clan in its own right, we still remained close to our former leader, Ordo. We are considered their right arm,” she reveals. “We are Ordo’s sworn allies.”

Like lightning the phrase ‘Kex, Ally of Ordo’ flashes before his eyes. The declaration, written in Mandalorian, had been seared onto the back of one of Talia’s jewelry pieces. Hearing her share the phrase’s old history just reinforces the life-debt that binds the two of them together. Since their Clans are allies, it is even more paramount that he repays her for saving his life.

 _But that oath was so long ago,_ a whisper inside him argues.

“Your bracelet said as much,” he comments, nodding at her right wrist. There, strapped to her, is the leather bracelet dyed purple and fitted with an amethyst stone. “But Clan Ordo left Dxun hundreds of years ago,” he states. “You still their allies after all this time?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “You know your history,” she praises, her fingers fiddling with the knot of her head-wrap tied around her abdomen. “We are allies. But not _every_ clan member left. A handful chose to stay behind. Over the years Kex took care of what remained of Ordo. But in this past century or so, it was Ordo who swore fealty to Kex, the superior Clan in influence and numbers. It’s ironic actually,” she quietly says, more to herself than to him.

The idea that his Tribe is split bothers him more than he realizes. He had always expected that all of the clan members simply uprooted back to Mandalore like one force, united with an iron-will. Why would anyone stay if their brethren wanted to leave? He then thinks of what Talia said about the value behind ancestral name and history. Well, the family ties they had with the Onderonians must have been strong indeed for his Tribe to be torn apart.

But hearing that Ordo has diminished to being a servant to a Clan that it had once ruled over irks him. To think that the master was diminished to being the servant. The transition would be such a blow to any Clan’s hubris that even he feels an echo of their humiliation resound in him. Yet a twinge of anger towards Ordo’s remnant on Dxun stirs within him. While they were cared for, thriving on a moon that revolved around a prosperous planet, his small Tribe back on Nevarro is alone and living, as Paz Vizla had said, like filthy sand rats. In order to survive his Tribe members must keep to themselves and stay hidden in the stinking sewers where space is limited and privacy is virtually impossible. They do not have the freedom to roam where they choose but are forced to go outside, to breathe in unpolluted air, one at a time. The Purge on Mandalore had ruined their lives and destroyed their families, scattering them across the galaxy like ashes.

By this time, the child seems bored at their conversation. He shuffles over to where his box-bed is levitating off the ground and stares at it. The bounty hunter pushes a button on his gauntlet, commanding the cargo box to slowly land on the ground. Once it is settled, the child climbs back into this bed. He buries himself under the Nexu pelt and peeks out his wrinkly head so he can stare up at the pink and purple sunset.

Turning his eyes away from his charge, the man finds himself asking Talia, “What about the Purge? The Empire targeted key Mandalorian worlds like Concord Dawn and Krownest. They massacred so many of us on Mandalore.”

“Your Clan is from Mandalore?” Talia inquires with interest. “We heard the rumors of the slaughter. How did you and your Clan survive?”

At first, he wants to kick himself for allowing some information about him slip through, again. He thought he had done a good job of keeping the tables turned on her, but apparently, he had let his guard down just so he could learn more about her. Annoyance smacks him at the back of his brain, but he forces himself to ignore it and replies:

“Our stealth and sheer will-power got us through it.” He does not want her to change the subject and start interrogating him, so he asks, “Didn’t the Empire come knocking on Dxun’s door?”

Talia’s gaze is fixed on her injured side. She had untied the knot of her head-wrap and is peering at the Bacta patch hiding underneath. He can see her tanned midriff and averts his eyes.

At his question, the Onderonian covers up her exposed skin and nods. “Yes, the Empire did come and practically declared martial law, just like they did with most planets in the Inner Rim. Onderon had to tread carefully and do what we were told. But our Clans weren’t . . . causing trouble.”

She looks at him, and he can see an apology in her eyes. He knows she is referring to the ruckus the non-Dxun Clans made when the Empire ruled their planets with an iron-fist. For as long as anyone could remember, the Clans had been known as great warriors throughout all the galaxy, and its members were a force to be reckoned with. But the Empire saw Mandalorians as potential threats to its power. The members of his Creed were regarded as unchecked warriors who could wage war across the galaxy and stir up any people desperate to break free of the Empire’s hold. So, when the Mandalorians refused to be told what to do by an emperor who was not Mandalore, when whispers were heard of a possible alliance with the Rebellion, the Empire did not hesitate to respond. In the blink of an eye, Mandalorian worlds were greeted with stormtrooper invasions, starship blockades, and mass slaughter.

From Talia’s hesitant comment, the bounty hunter has a strong feeling that the Dxun Clans did not form an uprising against their oppressors like their brethren. And he does not know whether to admire them for using their brains or to curse them for lacking a backbone and for not taking a stand.

“Since Dxun is Onderon’s moon,” Talia breaks into his thoughts, “it is under Onderon’s protection and jurisdiction. Naturally, the Clans hated it, but they realized that if they rallied against the Empire, they would get involved in a fight they couldn’t possibly win. Besides, many have families on Onderon. They knew that any kind of uprising would have affected Onderonians, too—the entire Japrael System in fact.

“In the end,” she sighs, “Onderon had managed to convince the Imperial investigators that our Dxun Clans were too small to be of any threat and that they were merely Onderonians dressed up in Mandalorian armor.”

“I bet the Clans liked hearing that,” he scoffs, shaking his head. He knows all too well that if there is anything that Mandalorians hated the most—besides not being able to prove themselves in combat—is looking weak in front of their enemies.

Talia laughs nervously. “They were a bit of a handful. But after we heard about the Purge on Mandalore, our Clans were . . . more cooperative.”

Her voice sounds distracted, so he glances at her. The Onderonian is again peeking underneath her head-wrap that she had tied around herself. He can see her slim fingers pressing against the Bacta patch. He finds it odd that she closes her eyes, her brows vaguely furrowed together in concentration. She then glides her fingers to the patch’s edge, opens her eyes, and is about to remove the patch altogether.

“Don’t do that,” he orders, authority resounding in his tone. Her fingers pause, and he stands up and walks around the fire.

She lifts her eyebrows at him, giving him a look that asks, ‘And why not?’

“You shouldn’t disturb the healing process.”

“I just want to see how far along it’s come,” she argues.

“I’ll scan it,” he states, his voice leaving no more room for argument. He tilts his head downward and sends her a pointed glare. To prove how serious he is, he feels his shoulders instinctively broaden and his back straighten. Meanwhile, Talia surveys his imposing stance, her gaze filled with calculations.

“Very well,” she says, and he thinks he detects annoyance in her accent.

With a quick nod, he marches up the _Crest_ ’s ramp at a fast pace. He cannot have her curiosity to her healing progress get the better of her. If she interrupts it, she could make it worse—not that he is concerned for her well-being. It just means that her wound will take more time to heal, and he will be stuck with her longer.

He enters his ship and walks over to where Talia had been sleeping. Ever since he patched her up, he had kept his medkit close by, in case he might need it again. He reaches the kit in three strides and snatches it from the floor. Then, he exits the _Crest_ and returns to Talia. In the thirty seconds it took for him to retrieve the medkit, it seems that she stopped picking at her Bacta patch and decided to wait for him.

 _Smart woman,_ he thinks as he sets the kit next to her.

After he opens the medical case, he pulls out his medisensor. He activates the hand-held device and readies it for scanning. He hovers it above Talia’s injured side and waits for it to beep.

The seconds tick by slowly, making him all too aware of how close he is leaning over Talia. He keeps his head straight, but he manages to steal a glance at her. He is almost startled to find her staring up at him, her head tilted back so his helmet will not bump into her. Her eyes roam across his helmet, and for an unexplained reason he cannot stop from feeling that they are somehow able to penetrate the Beskar and see his face. Even though the idea is impossible, he finds himself meeting her gaze, daring her to read his expression, to try to understand who he is and what he has been through.

He searches her dark brown eyes, follows a path down her upturned nose until he reaches her lips. Then, he sweeps his gaze along her sharp jawline and over her cheeks. He takes in her dark tresses, braided down her back with flyaway hairs escaping the style and swaying against her rosy cheeks. He wonders who she resembles the most, her Onderonian mother or Mandalorian father.

“You going to check that?” Talia whispers to him, her elegant accent sounding very soft and . . . almost alluring.

He is about to ask her what she means until he hears the Medisensor beeping. From the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips, he realizes that he had been so focused in his study of Talia Dewan Kex that he did not hear the scanner’s high-pitched beeping. His neck feels warm as he steps away from her and checks the Medisensor’s results.

“Your injury is healing,” he informs her. “It’ll be another day at least before it’s healed completely. I thought it would’ve taken longer,” he thinks aloud as he tosses the scanner back into the medkit.

“That _is_ faster than I was expecting,” she agrees, skimming her fingers across the Bacta patch.

“Well, it wasn’t as deep as it could’ve been,” he reminds her. “From the way the Nexu swiped at you, I figured half your side would be in shreds.”

He shuts the medkit, knowing the child will dig through it if he does not close it. He glances at Talia, surprised she is not saying anything else about her injury. The look on her face, he notices, is thoughtful. When she glances at him, he can see her force her expression to be nonchalant, as if she is trying hard not to care about something.

“So, I seemed,” she carefully says, “out of danger after you killed the Nexu? Medically speaking, that is. I mean, considering I was still hurt.”

He blinks at her then grabs his medkit. “Yeah.”

 _Hasn’t she been listening to me?_ he inwardly huffs while he retreats back to the cargo box he had been sitting on. _I’ve told her this about five times by now._

“Do I have any signs of an infection?” she asks, her gaze following him as he finds his seat.

“No. I applied irrigation bulbs.” He places his medkit beside him then adds, “And the Synthflesh I gave you is accelerating the healing process.”

A half-smile forms on her lips, and her brows rise. He should not feel proud that he impressed her, so he mentally shakes that sensation off.

“That was very generous of you,” she tells him. “Synthflesh has been expensive lately. I can re-stock you with medical supplies, for your trouble.”

The offer feels like charity, which makes his muscles tense at the thought. He turns his eyes away from her and studies the dark green perimeter of the jungle. In his professional, bounty hunter tone, he says, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Please, let me. It’s the least I can do.”

Knowing she does not understand that he owes her his life, he briefly closes his eyes, relishing this moment of freedom before he reveals that duty and honor bind him to her like a prisoner to his jailer. He swivels his head to face the woman dressed in green and decides to approach the subject head-on.

“No,” he replies. “Bandaging you up was the least that I can do. You saved my life. I owe you a debt.”

She blinks at him, the only reaction he can catch. Her face is neutral, and he knows a hundred thoughts must be running through her mind right now.

“Didn’t you re-pay it by taking care of me afterwards?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

 _I wish,_ he begrudgingly thinks.

“No,” he repeats, trying not to feel even slightly irritated. “Something tells me you could’ve survived on your own, without my help. Like I said before, your injury wasn’t as critical as it could have been. So, I didn’t really save your life by fixing you up.” He pauses for a moment, unable to seal his fate once and for all. But he forces himself to add, “I’m indebted to you.”

He expects she will plunge them into a long disagreement, bombarding him with irrational assurances that he does not owe her anything at all. She may tell him that he is taking his Mandalorian honor and duty to the extreme. The pair of them are stubborn and independent, and he suspects that backing down is not in the Onderonian’s nature, just like it is not in his. Therefore, he mentally braces his honor, preparing it not to feel offended by whatever she says.

“Very well,” Talia concedes after several seconds pass by. Her answer is accompanied with a dignified nod, and both responses surprise him so much that he flinches at her words. “From this moment on I acknowledge your debt to me. Until you can re-pay it, rest assured that I have no intention of taking advantage of it. You have my word,” she solemnly tells him, her eyes filled with understanding.

All he can do is stare at the woman. Against this will, he can feel his respect for her beginning to rise once more. Talia did not insult him by dismissing this subject, nor by considering it as a trivial matter. And to add to this, she promised in so many words to treat his debt to her with honor and respect. Why in the name of Ordo did he predict that she would argue with him? He wants to kick himself for taking so long to realize that she has a Mandalorian heart. He feels himself being drawn to her, to her dignity and understanding. A part of himself wants to deny the bond that has formed between them, but even he cannot ignore that the kinship Mandalorians have with each other is the same kind he senses is hovering between him and Talia.

It reminds him of this custom, dictated to by the Creed, that one should support a Mandalorian stranger simply because that person was a Mandalorian. This was a custom he personally never liked because the galaxy, especially under the rule of the Empire, proved to spit out untrustworthy and disreputable people. So, he always kept his eyes sharp and his hand on his blaster wherever he went and whenever he met anyone new—even if he found himself with a fellow Mandalorian. But with Talia . . . Observing that custom feels natural. Safe. And almost required.

His thinking is interrupted when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Talia open her mouth and say, “But I must insist in giving you a new supply of medical treatments. I have at least three cargo boxes filled with supplies.”

Hearing this reminds the bounty hunter of _Starlight_ ’s storage room, containing a maze of crates and barrels—and of the canisters of spice. The respect and somewhat high regard that he has for Talia drops back to the level it was when he first found the coppery drug. Yet he decides to take advantage of her generosity. She just may have given him an opportunity to ease into this topic after all.

“If . . . you’re sure,” he pretends to sound hesitant.

Hope flashes in her eyes and gives her a small smile. “I am sure.”

 _Here goes nothing,_ he ruminates.

“You know, I didn’t think you carried med-supplies onboard your ship,” he tells her. When she sends him a puzzling look, he bluntly says, “The spice seemed to take up a lot of room.”

A mask of confusion sweeps across her tanned face, and Talia blinks several times at him. “Sp-spice?”

He nods, crossing his arms in front of him. The Gizka has been let out of its box so-to-speak, and the man has given the amphibious pest full-reign to hop around and disturb the woman sitting across from him.

_Let’s see how she explains her way out of this one._

“I’m not sure I follow you,” Talia slowly says, confusion still plastered across her face.

Suddenly, anger and annoyance rise up within the bounty hunter. How dare she insult the intelligence he gathered on her. How dare she pretend to act ignorant of that cowardly escape called spice. If he had not known better, he would think that she saw him to be more brawns than brains. And here he was, allowing himself to believe that he felt a bond linking them together. He is as stupid as a Rodian mercenary going up against an IG assassin droid.

“Don’t give me that, _Starlight_ ,” he growls at her. “I know all about the spice filling up your cargo hold.”

It takes him a full second to realize that he spat out the nickname he had given her with so much unchecked venom that she flinched. Her eyes harden, and he sees her hands in her lap clench into tight fists. The tanned skin stretching across her knuckles are a paler shade, and he finds himself wondering if she knows how to use her fists as well as she knows how to handle her rapier.

“Then you’re gravely mistaken,” she snaps, her icy tone startling him. “I _don’t_ have spice on my ship.”

She had practically spat out the drug’s name, and he detects not only disgust but also bitterness in her voice. With her brows lowered, a dark cloud passes across her face, making him regret—albeit slightly—that he plunged into this topic. Talia is either very touchy about her precious cargo, or she really does not know what he is talking about and is truly offended that he would accuse her of having the powdery drug onboard her ship. It is strange that the latter option is one he had not even considered to be true.

 _And that’s a big mistake,_ he realizes. _So much for thinking things through._

Dropping an accusatory tone and making his voice sound as if he is only stating a fact, he tries again. “You do have spice, Talia. It was the kid who found it. As far as I know, you have three boxes of it.”

Her expression morphs from anger to disgust then back to confusion and finally to disbelief. She cranes her head from left to right as if she is looking for someone to come to her defense. Obviously not finding anyone, she snaps her head back in his direction. The way her brows furrow, her lips pressing tightly together, the determination lighting up her eyes—he knows what she is going to do and say before she even did.

“Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked the chapter. I know I took some liberties with Onderonian and Mandalorian history; I ran it by one of my siblings who is the biggest Star Wars fan I know, and she approved it, which made me ecstatic. Let me know what you liked about the chapter! Until next time!


	14. "It's a Long Story"

Chapter XIV: "It's a Long Story"

“Show me,” Talia commands, a defiant spark flashing in her eyes. She ties her head-wrap around her waist with a thick knot before giving him a pointed look, telling him that he should stand up and take her back to her ship.

He feels his mouth turn into a frown. So, perhaps she never knew about the spice; that does not mean she should strain herself over it. It would be best if she deals with this later, after she rested just a little more.

“Don’t you think you should get some—”

“This is more important,” she fires back, scrambling to her feet. “Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just need to see this for myself.”

He does not have time to register the implications behind her words because once Talia untangles her legs from sitting under her, she sets her feet on the ground. She then sways to the side, her legs giving in at her weight. Her hands are outstretched as she tries to balance herself, and it is a poor attempt indeed. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them and grabs her elbow to help steady her—he cannot have her crash onto the field and injure herself further.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, taking a wobbly step. “I just needed a moment.”

She shrugs off his hand, and he reluctantly releases her. Knowing he should not hover around her, he decides to step back, giving her enough room to stretch her legs. He cannot help but wonder how she managed to use the privy earlier and to walk down the _Crest_ ’s ramp without tumbling. Did she crawl while inside his ship until she found her land-legs? The question almost makes him smirk.

As she slowly ambles towards her ship, he notices that she places a hand over her injured side. She glances over her shoulder, determination etching its way across her face.

“Coming, bounty hunter?” she asks, irritated at his lack of movement.

In response, he presses two buttons on his gauntlet, one to retract the loading ramp and close the _Crest_ ’s side hatch and the other to summon the cargo box that the child is currently sleeping in. He strolls closer to Talia, and a brief smile plays on her lips when she sees the child’s box-bed trailing behind him. Once he reaches her, she continues to march towards her ship.

The sun has almost disappeared in the west. A splash of orange and pink layer the horizon with shades of purple and midnight blue looming on top, ready to devour the brighter hues. Insects chirp along with the croaking of Cholganna’s native frogs. The jungle’s tree-line is a wall of black, daring anyone foolish enough to enter its unknown depths.

 _Starlight_ is a few meters away, but because of Talia’s slower pace, it is taking them longer to reach it. He should be glad she is not sprinting across the field to get to her ship, yet her short strides make him impatient. He has half a mind to carry her just so they can get there sooner.

“How did the youngling find the spice?” she asks, her eyes fixated on her silver vessel.

“He opened one of your cases when I went to move the ship closer to mine,” he says, skirting around the truth.

“And you’re sure it’s spice?”

Annoyance pricks at him, and he does not stop it from bleeding through his tone when he snaps, “I think I know what Sansanna spice looks like, _Talia_.”

He knows he scolded her as if she was an ignorant little girl, but from the bewildered glance that she sends him, he realizes she noticed for the first time that he called her by her real name. He finds it strange that she did not hear him a few minutes ago, but then, she _was_ focused on the spice. And of course, he did call her ‘Talia’ when she was delirious with her fever—another moment she cannot remember. He does not know why her name slipped out of his mouth instead of ‘Starlight’ like a few minutes ago. It just . . . did. He tells himself he did it because he wanted her to know that he is taking this spice topic very seriously.

“It seems that you hate spice just as much as I do,” she remarks, looking forward again.

He is about to throw a snarky comment at her but holds his tongue—they have now arrived at _Starlight_. His fingers reach for his gauntlet since he had programmed it to open the vessel’s side-hatch in case he needed to board it again. He is on the verge of sending a command to the ship when he sees Talia pull back her left sleeve. A metal armband, thin and three fingers wide, is secured about half-way up around her forearm. She taps it, and two seconds later _Starlight_ ’s side door swooshes open with its ramp sliding down to the ground. Subtly, he crosses his arms, pretending that was his intention all along.

The moment the ramp is lowered Talia ascends the metal incline, with him trailing after her. Her long, black braid sways behind her like a thick pendulum, and he notices that its end reaches her lower back. Talia crosses the threshold, her entrance now activating the ship’s lights. She slips into her storage room, and he follows.

After he steps into the cargo hold, he sees her glance at her luggage then looks over her shoulder at him, an eyebrow cocked. He feels himself wince the second he realizes that she knows someone had been going through her personal belongings. He did not exactly put her clothes and shoes back in the same order they were in before the baby got his sticky, three-fingered hands on them.

“The kid,” the bounty hunter explains, not sure what else to say without going into too much detail.

“Ah,” she exclaims with a nod before walking further into the room. She stops beside her mattress and folds her arms in front of her, waiting for him to show her where the infamous drug is being stashed.

Once he commands the child’s box-bed to stay beside the door, he marches over to the three cases near Talia’s mattress. He squats in front of one, unfastens the locking mechanism with a flick of his wrist, and opens the case. He repeats the same actions with the other two boxes he had found. As he steps aside, he hears Talia’s breath hitch at the sight of eighteen [silver canisters](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/611713562581368832/chapter-xiv-its-a-long-story-from-my-weapon). She moves past him and snatches one of them.

“Careful,” he warns when he sees her unscrewing the canister’s lid. “Spice is activated by light.”

“I know,” she says, but she does not stop. She removes the lid and peeks inside the canister before snapping the cover back on, just like he had done. Her knuckles are nearly white as she screws the lid shut.

Silence encompasses the cargo hold. It is so loud that he welcomes the sound of the child sneezing in his sleep. Talia, standing next to him, is still holding onto the steel canister in a death grip, the tanned skin across her knuckles stretching to its limit. He watches her close her eyes and force herself to take in deep, slow breaths. A frown emerges on her lips, and she looks utterly betrayed. But why?

He notices the canister shaking before realizing that her hands are quivering. His feet are rooted to the floor, his mouth unable to form any kind of words. Like an idiot he simply stands there watching Talia return the canister to its box. Then, she turns away from both him and it before sagging onto her thick mattress. Her bracelets jingle together when she wraps her arms around her knees, burying her face in her lap.

 _Well,_ he thinks, _at least she didn’t know about the spice after all._

The seconds roll by as fast as a lazy Hutt. He feels useless standing there. What should he do? Pat her on the back and tell her that he is sorry? He crosses his arms then changes his mind and lets them hang by his side. He stops looking at the Onderonian woman and rests his eyes on the slumbering child instead. He should not be here witnessing Talia in a vulnerable moment—it is making _him_ feel uncomfortable. And she probably does not want him to see her like this anyways.

“Go ahead,” he hears her muffled voice say. “Ask me.”

His gaze shifts to her hugging her knees. As if sensing his focus is now fixated on her, she looks up at him. There are no tears rolling down her cheeks, and her eyes are neither watery nor tinted red with anger or sorrow. Exhaustion sweeps across her face like a shadow, making her seem older.

“Ask you what?” he replies, his voice sounding clipped, as usual.

She does not roll her eyes or release a frustrated huff. Talia simply looks at him, resignation now replacing her exhaustion. “Why is there spice on my ship,” she asks for him.

“You didn’t know about it,” he answers. He closes one of the spice cases and sits on it, facing her. When she shakes her head in confirmation, he asks, “How could you not know it was loaded onboard?”

Her dark gaze shifts around the room, studying anything except him. So, he prompts her: “You came from Concord Dawn, not Onderon.”

 _That_ catches her attention, and she snaps her focus on him.

“Humanitarian mission,” she admits, but he already knows that. He nods, encouraging her to continue. “I have some close ties with Concord,” she sighs. “My relations needed help; they have been suffering from a severe drought lately. I led a group to give them what they needed.”

“And your ship’s log,” he interrupts, “says you unloaded everything you had.”

“And I did.”

Lifting a hand, he motions at the black maze of cargo boxes and storage barrels. “I beg to differ.”

She opens her mouth but closes it. After a few seconds she tries to say something again and decides not to. Obviously, she is wrestling with whether to tell him the truth or not. He feels so close to knowing why she is here on Cholganna that he leans forward and sets his forearms on his knees, waiting for her to just make up her mind.

Impatient, he asks, “Wanna tell me why you’re all stocked up here?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time,” he throws at her without missing a beat. “And so do you.”

At this, she chuckles, but it sounds almost bitter in his ears. From the way her shoulders sag, she looks as if she has been carrying a heavy burden for years. She rubs her temple with a hand, and he swallows a retort that he is just itching to toss at her. He knows he cannot let his impatience jeopardize this fragile moment. He needs to appear interested in her story, maybe even sympathetic.

Talia sighs then mutters under her breath, “I shouldn’t tell you. You’re a bounty hunter for Dxun’s sake.”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, not bothering to hide a smirk in his voice. “You think I’m going to take you back to Onderon to collect a bounty on you?”

A chuckle is about to emerge from his throat, his remark tickling him with comradery. But the way Talia’s body freezes, the way her eyes slightly widen, stop him. If anything, his chuckle almost chokes him right then. His shoulders tense, and he stares at her hard.

“You have a _bounty_ on your head?” His voice is low as the question races out of his mouth.

“No,” she automatically says. “I mean, I could. But,” she sighs in resignation. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he echoes, not caring if he sounds like parrot.

Thoughts swirl in his brain, and he tries to sort them out. Since Talia is not a spice runner, dealer, or smuggler, that can leave two likely options: she is a wanted criminal or a royal runaway. And either case is enough for anyone to order a bounty on her.

“That’s why you kept your face hidden,” he realizes aloud, and she slowly nods. “And you didn’t want to chance that I just might’ve recognized you, in case your head _does_ have a bounty.” Her silence is enough confirmation for him, which forces him to ask, “Who are you?”

“I’m not a spice dealer, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s obvious,” he snaps at her. Since she refuses to answer such a simple, straightforward question, he will have to try a different tactic and hope he can find a way to wheedle the truth out of her. Trying to keep his patience from slipping through his fingers, he slowly asks, “Why is there spice on your ship?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you have an idea.”

Her eyes squint at him as if she is evaluating him and his Beskar armor one last time before she finally decides to come clean. If she does not say something soon . . . Oh Mandalore, stop him from just shaking the answers out of her!

“It’s because I’m being set up, okay?” she declares, rising to her feet. She begins to pace, her arms tightly crossed in front of her.

 _Well, at least she isn’t holding her side anymore,_ a voice whispers at the back of his mind. But he pushes the thought away.

“Why?” he presses, watching her walk back and forth. “And by who?”

On his right, Talia stops pacing. Standing in front of a large cargo box, its height reaching above her waist, she drums her fingers on its black surface. She sighs before saying, “I’ve been planning to leave Onderon for a while now.”

A groan escapes him before he can stop it. He knows he said he has time to hear her “long story,” but does that mean she needs to start at the beginning? Why can she not just give him a brief report?

“Please, bear with me?” she implores him, glancing over her shoulder. She had stopped drumming her fingers on the box.

When he cocks his head to the side so he can look at her better, he sees that her eyes are tired. To be honest, he does not want to humor her, and he knows he is being unfair. But he had wanted to unravel the mysteries tied around her, so why not? He sends her a quick nod, to which he receives a half-smile from her.

“Concord Dawn was my springboard to leave my homeworld,” she explains as she turns around and resumes her pacing. “After I unloaded all the cargo for my relations, I smuggled the supplies you see here.” She waves at hand at the labyrinth of boxes and barrels.

“You were running away?” he asks, his voice flat and unimpressed.

“Yes,” she says, her green tunic swishing past him.

“For how long? Forever?”

Talia huffs out a tense laugh. “Well, I loaded about three years’ worth of supplies.”

“So, the spice was sneaked onboard, and you didn’t know about it?” he double-checks. He cranes his neck to the left where she had stopped pacing.

“I promise you,” she vows, raising her right hand, “on the _Resol’nare_ *.”

_(*pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray)_

He feels his eyebrows shoot up. Swearing on their culture’s doctrine, the Six Actions, is a solemn oath indeed and is not to be taken lightly. The Resol’nare is central to their Creed’s way of life; it defines what it means to be a Mandalorian. To break such an oath has been known to lead to life-threatening consequences.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _She’s dead serious._

Nodding at her again, he replies, “All right. Go on. Why'd you run away?”

Her gaze drops to the floor, and she nervously wrings her hands together. “I’m, um . . . I’m trying to avoid some . . . sticky business with Onderonian politics.”

“Yeah, I figured you’re a politician,” he mutters loud enough for her to hear, which she does. She glances at him, a distasteful frown forming on her lips.

“I’m more of an advisor to the royal family,” she explains. Then, after a few seconds, she adds, “I also represent any clan members from Dxun living on Onderon. And . . . the Clans had chosen me to look out for their best interests in the Onderonian court. So, yes.” She shrugs in resignation. “I am a . . . politician.”

From the way her mouth twists at the last word, he gathers that she dislikes being identified as a political leech just as much as he dislikes having to interact with one. He wonders why she even entered into that world since it is clear she finds no pleasure in coming from that sphere. But now it not the time to dwell on this.

“And you just dropped everything and ran?” he finds himself asking.

“I made the proper arrangements before I left my homeworld,” she defends, stubbornly crossing her arms. “My final instructions and good-byes are on a data pad, and I put it where my people can easily locate it. The plan was for them to look at it _after_ they realized I had not landed in Iziz with them.”

As he remembers that Iziz is the capital of her planet, he watches Talia walk over to her mattress and sit down again. She rubs her temples with both hands, and he can hear a slight groan in her voice as she says, “By that time, I would’ve been long gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if there _are_ bounties on my head, ordering that I be dragged back home.”

 _For her to think that,_ he figures, _then she’s a lot more important to the monarchy than she’s letting on._

“And you being set up?” he prompts, curious to know how she came to this conclusion earlier.

Talia drops her hands and looks at him, her eyes displaying her exhaustion. “Whoever did it was expecting to arrest me once I arrived at the Iziz Hangar. No one would’ve thought I had planned to head for the Outer Rim the instant my humanitarian group entered hyperspace.”

 _Well, that’s not the answer I was looking for,_ he muses to himself. Yet he is not annoyed that she skirted around his question. After all, she _had_ given him more information about herself, information he doubts she expected to reveal.

“So, why would anyone want to set you up?” he presses her, crossing his arms in front of him. A smirk forms on his lips when he quips, “Advise the royals to let the peasants speak their minds?”

At this, she sends him a saucy, sarcastic smile, and he grins to himself, inwardly patting his shoulder for getting under her skin.

“Let’s just say,” she admits, “I didn’t support a popular matter currently going on in court. Or a handful of matters since I’m being honest,” she mutters under her breath. “To put it plainly, I’ve angered some powerful people.

“Spice is illegal on Onderon. If I was caught having it, I would be discredited. Disgraced. Planting the spice on my ship was my counterparts’ way of getting rid of me, of dragging my name through the mud. And I can only imagine how much they would’ve relished seeing me imprisoned. Or executed.”

Though the coppery drug is prohibited on her planet, he highly doubts it is so serious of an offense that would result in a death penalty, especially since her mother had come from the Onderonian aristocracy. But he keeps his opinion to himself because he does not want to distract Talia from sharing more.

“Wouldn’t it have looked strange,” he asks, “to those setting you up that you were loading so much cargo onto your ship?”

“I was supposed to take some things back to Onderon,” she explains. She pulls her thick braid over her shoulder and begins fiddling with its end, twirling it around her fingers. “I planned to send that particular cargo from another planet, but I didn’t get the chance to do it yet. So, seeing boxes being loaded onboard wouldn’t have been much of a surprise.”

_All right now, let’s get to the heart of the matter._

“And you didn’t want to go back to Onderon because . . .?” he presses, purposefully leaving his question to hang between them.

She lets out a tired sigh, her shoulders sagging. He begins to wonder if it is long past time for her to rest soon. Her body, though almost done healing, still needs to recuperate.

“Politics pushed me into a corner. I was being forced to make decisions I wasn’t ready to commit to,” she confesses. “And instead of making them, I chose to _not_ make them. I chose not to return.”

“You abandoned your people,” the bounty hunter states. His tone is dripping with disapproval, for he had not viewed Talia as the type to give up and run with her tail between her legs. From the fire he has seen in her eyes earlier, he figures she was quite spirited in her younger years, and that spirit, though faded, is still inside her. He is willing to bet that she is a fighter and not one to surrender.

“I’m not my father, if that’s what you really mean,” she coolly throws at him, her posture suddenly turning stiff. “At least I said ‘good-bye’ to my loved ones, even if it was in my own way.”

“So, why’d you want to leave in the first place?” he prods with a little more force than before. He cannot understand how a woman who loved both her cultures could simply leave them behind. Why would she give them up? At least she had a homeworld, unlike him and his Tribe. “These ‘decisions,’” he says, “couldn’t have been _that_ overwhelming.”

“It’s because I’m tired, bounty hunter,” she laments in a way that exposes how aggravated she is at both him and her life.

He cocks an eyebrow at how frustrated she had sounded. Her expression morphs from annoyance into one of utter defeat. She rubs a hand over her eyes, her gold bracelets jingling. It is not until she drops her hand that he suddenly notices dark circles forming underneath her eyes.

“I’m tired,” she repeats, her elegant accent sounding weak in his ears. “Of living the cloak-and-dagger life, of making choices that I’ll never be proud of. You don’t know how many underhanded decisions I’ve had to make to safeguard my people against the Empire. Or of the sleepless nights that have plagued me since.

“I’ve been plunged into that political sludge _for years_ ,” she almost chokes out, her eyes now looking moist. “With the New Republic taking the Empire’s place, I shouldn’t have had to wade through the greasy mire of politics—at least, not like that. But I was. And I am _beyond_ exhausted of hiding everything about me—my thoughts, my emotions, my interests.

“I was hoping to retire somewhere, on Onderon away from Iziz or maybe another planet altogether.” She chuckles, but it is painted with bitterness and ridicule, both directed at herself for entertaining such a fantasy.

A twinge of guilt for provoking her nags at the Mandalorian. He knows what that kind of exhaustion feels like, to keep moving forward even when one’s options range from terrible to agonizing. All too well he remembers the temptation to just wallow in despair while his Tribe wandered from planet to planet, licking their wounds from the slaughter on Mandalore. Searching for refuge was risky, and they were terrified of being discovered by the Empire. Like the rest of his tribe members, he was easily startled by the smallest of noises. He had slept with a hand gripping his blaster, preferring to shoot first then ask questions afterwards. His gut would twist anxiously from dawn to dusk, and food—though scarce—was hard to swallow and to keep down.

Looking at the Onderonian woman, all weary and thirsty for freedom, he finds himself feeling sorry for her. Though she seemed to have come from a steady background, it struck him that perhaps her cultures had cemented her feet to the ground, forcing her to stay and enter not a life of servitude but of enslavement.

Unlike her, he did not have that problem with Death Watch and even the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. Both groups required him to move across the galaxy constantly, giving him a strong-willed lifestyle and a sense of freedom. Death Watch taught him who he was, granting him an identity and a new home that he could be proud of. While Mandalore was a place where he could return to without having to change who he was, Talia had been subjected to twist and bend according to policies dictated to her by Onderon and the Galactic Empire.

He figures she had surrendered her years of bloom that most women have and of opportunities that would have allowed her to think of herself for a change. He wonders if she had known what politics during the Empire’s tyranny would have required her to do, to give up. She said she had sleepless nights, and he has seen firsthand the nightmares that haunt her. Her life was so different from his. When he had turned to bounty hunting over twenty years ago, he found a sense of peace that people would not normally think his occupation could bring. He knew what he was getting himself into, of the risks and the hardships—and he welcomed them. In fact, he believed that Death Watch had raised him for that kind of life, a life of freedom and glory.

Duty to monarch, planet, and Clan had wrung Talia dry yet filled her up with so much baggage that she was letting her guard down and confiding in him, a bounty hunter of all people. But what he finds even stranger is that he actually does not mind listening to her troubles, even if coaxing her to open up had taken some creativity and patience.

“Why’d you sneak out?” he asks, suddenly wanting to know. She spoke of the pressure, so why not quit or declare her resignation?

“I still have family in the Japrael System. They wouldn’t have let me go. And,” she hesitates, her voice quiet. “And I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle saying ‘good-bye’ to them in person.”

“And why’d you pick Cholganna to hide on?”

Talia shrugs her shoulders. “It’s a planet on the edge of the Outer Rim. But I was planning to lay low in one of the settlements here.”

The phrase ‘before I met you’ lingers between them, making him silently chuckle. In the twenty-four hours since he has met her, the two of them—plus the child—have been through a lot.

 _But I think we’re done sharing for today,_ he ruminates to himself. _Or else she’ll start asking questions about me._

“So,” he says with a tone of finality as he rises to his feet. “What are you going to do with the spice?”

“Well, I obviously don’t want it,” she replies, also standing up. “And I wouldn’t give it to you, even if you didn’t hate it as much as I do. So . . .” She tilts her head to the side as she stares at the boxes of spice. “I was thinking perhaps that the best option would be to . . . burn it.”

She looks at him for approval, and he nods at her. “If you do, you’ll have to do it before sunrise,” he advises, reminding her that the drug is activated when light shines down on it. He turns around and studies the three boxes.

“That’s not for a while now,” he hears her say behind him. “We have plenty of time.”

Hearing the tiny yet powerful two-letter word makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he is not quite sure why.

“We?” he asks, facing her.

Covering her mouth with a hand, she yawns, “I can really use the help.”

Her yawn triggers the desire for him to do the same, but he bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to ignore how drained his own body suddenly feels.

“I think it’s time . . . we,” he slowly says, testing the word and finding himself feeling comfortable using it, “both get some rest.”

Talia glances down at her mattress stationed behind her. Then, she fuses her tired gaze onto his helmet’s visor. “I have an extra mattress. It’s underneath—”

“That’s not necessary,” he cuts her off. He knows sleeping on her ship, perhaps in this same room with her, would make him feel awkward—even if a mattress sounds more comfortable to sleep on than his pilot’s chair. He nods in the corner where the child is snoozing in his box-bed. “I’ll just take the kid back to my ship for a few hours.”

Her eyes squint suspiciously at him, and she cocks her head to the side. “You’re not going to leave, are you?” she asks him.

It dawns on him how that thought had never even entered his mind. Earlier today, he considered doing something like that. He shakes his head, answering, “I won’t.” But he must not sound very convincing because she is still looking at him warily. “I swear on Mandalore himself,” he adds as he raises his right hand for a moment, like she had done earlier.

Apparently satisfied, she gives him a nod. “You know, before you leave . . .” she says, looking distracted.

As she walks over to that huge box stationed beside her mattress, he allows his eyes to follow her. He crosses his arms, impatient to head back to his ship and to rest. He needs to think.

“I believe I should record what I’m doing,” Talia explains over her shoulder. She unlocks the case’s security mechanism with the flick of her wrist. “It’ll be used as evidence, for my defense. But we’re going to need some help.”

He is about to ask her what she thinks she is doing when she pulls back the cargo box’s lid. Even though she is blocking his view, he catches a glimpse of what is inside. His hand immediately seizes his blaster, clenching its grip tightly as his eyes harden at the sight of a large, cylinder-looking figure sitting within the cargo’s interior.

_Droid!_


	15. Bucket of Bolts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I have always tried to make Wednesdays as my up-date days (and sometimes I post a new chapter a day before or after), but I couldn't do it this week. I've started a new job, which has been stressing me out since it's unknown-ish territory for me, and I realized that I have to push my up-date days now to Fridays.
> 
> Well, here's a new chapter for you all. Thank you, readers, for coming back to "My Weapon, My Religion," and I hope you enjoy this update. I want to especially thank TheKeeperofBabyYoda and AvidReader. You two have been very encouraging with your comments, and I really appreciate them so much.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter XV: Bucket of Bolts

With his hand still clutching his holstered weapon in a death-grip, he glares at the droid. He recognizes it as one of those trash-bucket machines, the kind that has high-pitched whistles and can roll on three “feet.” People have insisted they are harmless, but no matter how many times they try to convince him that either this or other droids are no threat, his mind automatically affiliates them with the machines that decimated his original homeworld.

Even now his brain connects the cylinder-shaped astromech droid hiding in Talia’s cargo box to the B2 super battle droids that killed his parents.

In his nightmares, the figures of the battle droids loom over him, their height as colossal as the skyscrapers of Telos. The fiery ignitions from the ends of their rockets flare across a blood-orange sky, illuminating the droids’ bulking silhouettes. He always dives for cover behind a crumbling brick wall and feels a spray of dirt and pebbles pour over him.

Most of the time he is nine years old again, frantically searching for his parents or wrapping his arms around his father’s neck in a tight squeeze. Then there are times when he is alone, scrambling away at a Hutt’s pace from the battle droids’ impending onslaught of death and destruction. The relentless streams of red laser bolts buzz pass by him like lethal insects, whizzing mere centimeters from his ears.

But his worst nightmares are when he is transported back to that day when he lost his parents. He would be as he is now, a bounty hunter armed with weapons and experience, leading his father and mother to safety. Yet even with all of his arsenal at his disposal, he always lands back in that sandy cellar, looking up as both of his parents close the doors of his hideout. The last thing he remembers are the tears washing their dirty cheeks and the bittersweet smiles on their faces that show how proud they are of him. Every time, he tries to escape that cellar by reaching for the ground level. But every time, his sand-hole of a prison grows in depth, making it impossible for him to climb out and save his parents.

Screams sharpened with pain cut through the air like a vibroblade to the gut. The foundations of his planet shudder as the artillery fire from the droids wound it beyond repair. And the Mandalorian bounty hunter, too broken and rendered completely useless, crumbles to his knees, his soul unleashing an ear-splitting, mournful cry that rips through his nightmare and forces him to wake up panting and dripping in sweat.

 _All droids can kill,_ he reminds himself as his eyes begin to slowly re-focus back onto Talia.

His grip on his holstered blaster is firm while he watches her reach for the white astrodroid with orange plating. He hears a single click before the trash compactor machine activates, whistling and whirring at its owner.

“Hello there,” Talia greets the droid. It bothers him that he can detect a sense of warmth coloring her elegant accent. The [bucket of bolts](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/612500592015900672/chapter-xv-bucket-of-bolts-from-my-weapon-my) swivels its cone-shaped head and angrily beeps at her. “Look, I’m sorry for turning you off,” its owner says as if she is a parent explaining her actions to a child. “But I warned you that if you kept peppering me with questions, I would shut you down.”

His jaw clenches when the droid titters on its two legs, whistling at Talia for several seconds, and he feels his irritation at the droid’s mere presence on the ship heighten. The nerve of that sorry excuse for an artificial intelligence automaton to talk back to her.

_That one’s way too chatty._

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he hears Talia reprimand the astrodroid. “It’s only been a couple of days. No need to panic.” She is about to say something else when the machine interrupts her with more whirrs and beeping. The bounty hunter watches as she crosses her arms and says in a slight huff, “Of course I stored you in there. Where else was I going to put you so you wouldn’t get banged up?”

The droid seems to have been stumped with her question, which makes the Mandalorian send it a spiteful smirk. His eyes are fixed on the metal nuisance as Talia steps aside, allowing it to emerge from its closet-like box. The droid drops its third foot to the floor and rolls out. It swivels its head 360°, and he believes it had slowed down just a tad in its rotation when it spies him standing a couple of feet behind Talia.

“Yes,” she tells the droid. “I will introduce you. Just give me a chance, okay?”

While he suspiciously studies the machine, he notices out of the corner of his eye the Onderonian woman turning so she can see both him and her metal pet. She does not say anything, which makes him send her a curious glance. He then sees that her eyes have been drawn to his hand still clutching his blaster.

In half a second, she steps in between him and her precious droid, her hands raised as if _he_ is the one who needs to be placated. In his opinion it is that trash bucket—who decides at this moment to freak out with its high-pitched whistle and more tittering—that needs to calm down.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Talia assures the man. Her voice is calm, and he has a small desire to trust her on this, despite the fact that she is protecting a fancy piece of metal equipment. “He isn’t a threat to you. He’s my friend.” When she offers him a comforting smile, he finds himself loosening the grip on his blaster. “Allow me to present my little companion,” she says, stepping aside so he can see the droid again. “This is [R6-D12](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/612500785090150400/chapter-xv-bucket-of-bolts-from-my-weapon-my).”

The bucket of bolts chirps at him, and even he can tell that it is sending him a friendly greeting. Still, he surveys it with an eye of suspicion. To him, it resembles almost every other astromech droid that he has come across. However, its head is not completely round like those R2 units; nor does it have a sharp cone-head like the failed R5s or whatever number they were called. This droid’s head seems as if it is a mixture of the two other units: cone-shaped like the R5s but somewhat rounded along its edges due to the R2s’ influence.

Other than that major physical difference, there is nothing extraordinary about Talia’s droid. It has two legs but rolls around on three feet. All over its cylinder body are hidden compartments which, he knows, contain a variety of tools and random gadgets. On the droid’s face are a hologram projection that looks like a nose and a circular lens that acts as its eye. Like he had noticed before, its main color is a dull white, and orange plating covers its head, some of its legs, and a few patches across its abdomen.

“That was a nice ‘hello,’ R6,” Talia praises it.

“I don’t like droids,” he blurts out, which earns him a mechanical snort from the bucket of bolts. Talia on the other hand looks confused.

“Really? Why not?”

“I don’t trust them,” he states as he removes his hand from his blaster and crosses his arms in front of him.

She hums to herself and then—much to his annoyance—exchanges a look with the droid like she would with a best friend. Her metal pet tweets, swiveling its head back and forth.

“Well, believe me: you can trust R6. He may be too blunt and sassy sometimes.” At this the droid spurts out what sounds like a retort. “But he’s a good companion,” she adds, placing an affectionate hand on the droid’s cone-head.

The clipped beeping and whistling noises from the tin-can bounce off the walls of the cargo hold. If it keeps up its chattering, the Mandalorian just might get a headache soon and would have to be restrained from blasting that loud-mouth, irritating astrodroid to smithereens.

“What did it say?” he asks, tilting his head at Talia.

Her dark eyebrows raise at his question. “You don’t understand Binary?”

“Why would I if I don’t like them?” he throws at her.

When the droid releases a flurry of beeps, Talia reprimands it. “Oh, hush. I don’t think his dislike is against you personally, R6. He must’ve had a bad experience, that’s all.”

 _You have no idea,_ the bounty hunter silently tells her.

The trash compactor whistles and whirs, swiveling its head back and forth. It soon casts its lens onto the man, and Talia smirks at whatever the droid had said. The Mandalorian then begins to get annoyed at Talia herself. If she keeps on talking to that droid about _him_ as if he is not even there, he has half a mind to storm out of the ship and take the kid with him. It rubs him the wrong way that the tin-can is distracting her, but he forces his impatience aside. Relief soothes him when Talia finally turns her attention back onto him and translates.

“Well, R6 is willing to let your dislike of him slide. For the time being.”

The question, ‘Am I supposed to feel grateful?’, is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites the inside of his cheek to stop it from slipping out.

“But,” she sighs and sends him an apologetic look, “he wants to know your name. Or at least, he wants to know what he should call you.” She does not give him a chance to reply because she focuses on the droid and says, “Join the club, my friend. He hasn’t told me either.”

The metal nuisance lets out a soft whistle, which sounds like a question, but the bounty hunter is no expert in the droid dialect. And if he is being honest, he has absolutely no intention of becoming familiar with that mechanical language. Ever.

“No,” Talia answers, still chatting with her tin-toy. “I don’t think he’s ashamed of his name.” She sends the bounty hunter a teasing smile, and it feels unusual that he is the direct receiver of such comradery. “But enough of that, R6,” she scolds the droid. “I have something for you to do, all right? I need you to make a holo-recording of me.”

So, in the next ten minutes the Mandalorian watches as the sassy droid records its Onderonian owner. He skirts into the shadows and surveys the two figures from where he is standing beside the child, who is still sleeping in his box-bed. Since Talia recounts all that he has already discovered with her (except, she omits his part in the matter), he allows himself to tune out her words. However, he takes the time to pay attention to her mannerisms, her choice in vocabulary, her stance—pretty much everything about her.

Her posture is straight, and she motions with her hands at the appropriate times, being conscious not to appear over-dramatic. She speaks with authority and calmness, explaining the situation in great detail so there will not be any room for misunderstanding. During this time, she is no longer the mysterious woman he has known her to be; instead, she has transformed into Talia the politician. Her elegant accent grows stronger as she claims her innocence and ignorance pertaining to the spice onboard her ship, and he finds himself closing his eyes, enjoying how dignified her voice sounds. Did she always speak like this when she debated with council members and other politicians on her home planet?

“I promise on my mother’s burial mound,” he hears her say, which makes him open his eyes, “that I have no affiliation with the Sansanna spice here on _Starlight_. I will destroy it as soon as possible. That is all.”

With a hand she motions for the droid to end the recording. The tin-can beeps after two seconds, and the Mandalorian notices Talia’s posture relax. The circles underneath her eyes look darker, and he decides to convince her to get some rest before they burn the powdery drug.

The droid chirps at its owner, who sends it a half-smile. “Yes, R6. We,” Talia says while gesturing between the bounty hunter and herself, “are planning to burn the spice.”

“But _we_ ,” he quickly adds, finding it easier to use that word, “can do that later. In a few hours at least.”

She nods and walks closer to where he is standing. “How about before sunrise? I’m feeling quite exhausted right now,” she admits as she stifles a yawn.

Ignoring the whistling droid, he relays his agreement by nodding. “I think that’s for the best.”

“Very well. I'll have R6 stay in the cockpit,” she informs him. “He will keep a lookout and will lower the ramp when you return. How about you head over here, say, two hours before dawn?”

“Works for me.”

“Excellent.” Talia gives him a tired smile, which he returns even though she cannot see it.

Again, he sends her a curt nod. He turns to the door and is about to walk out when her voice stops him:

 _“Udes pirusti, verd_ * _.”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: OO-des peer-OO-stee, vaird; translation: “Rest well, warrior.”)_

The words are spoken with a perfect Mandalorian accent, transporting him back in time to when his adopted mother was first teaching him the language all those years ago. A sense of nostalgia washes over him, and he unexpectedly misses the woman who had taken him in and acted as his guardian. Along with a slight shiver running down his back, the inside of his chest tightens at the memory.

But the word _verd_ lingers in his mind. He has not been called that in . . . well, ever. While growing up in Death Watch’s ranks, he had been taught a warrior’s code. His guardian, and most of his instructors, spoke of how younglings should aspire to be a warrior, in both words and deeds. Since he swore himself to the Creed, he has always been called ‘Mando’ or ‘bounty hunter.’ To be a warrior meant to fight for or defend one’s Clan, not to track down people for a pay-day. To be a warrior required sacrifice, sometimes of one’s blood or one’s life, not to die unremembered because a price landed on one’s head.

Warrior—that is what Talia called him. He selfishly seizes the moment to allow the word to wash over him, to seep into his very bones. It feels surreal. And deep down, he knows he does not deserve such a distinction.

Not being able to help himself, he glances over his shoulder and finds Talia looking at him. Understanding etches across her face, softening her diamond-shaped features. It is as if she knew that the switch in dialect would strike a tender chord within him.

Before he can bite his tongue, he replies, “ _Bal gar_ * . . . Talia.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: Bahl gahr; translation: “And you . . . Talia.”)_

The warm smile she gives him reaches her eyes, making them shine like the stars. Even in her battered clothes and unkept hair, she seems as lovely as Cholganna’s grand moons floating in the night sky. He has to tear his gaze away from her before he is tempted to bask in this bond that is, against his will, starting to grow stronger.

Determined, he marches out of the cargo hold, the child’s box-bed hovering right behind him. Though his body is yearning for rest, he knows it will take some time before his mind settles down and sorts out all of the information that Talia has shared with him. It is a little over twenty-four hours since he met the woman, and he suddenly feels more exhausted now than he did after fighting the Nexu.

 _This has been one of_ the _longest days of my life,_ he inwardly complains.

As he reaches the ship’s exit, he can hear Talia still talking with her trash compactor droid:

“R6, we have a lot of work to do.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Several hours later . . ._

Darkness swirls around him as he marches back towards _Starlight_. The moons above have disappeared into the horizon, condemning Cholganna to be a land of shadows. A swift breeze rustles through the jungle, its bite cool and damp. The gust penetrates his clothes, lifting his cloak into the air. He can feel a layer of goosebumps rise across his arms, and he forces down the temptation to shiver.

Beside him, the child is sitting up in his box-bed all snuggled underneath the Nexu pelt. The bed hovers a foot away from the Mandalorian, following him wherever he goes. The child coos and points to the silver vessel.

“Yeah,” his guardian answers, his gravelly voice penetrating the ever-present buzzing of the insects. “We’re heading over there again.”

Less than ten minutes ago, he turned on his night-vision as he surveyed the field around him, searching for the best place where he and Talia could burn the spice. He ended up choosing a spot right between _Starlight_ and the _Crest_ —a safe distance from both ships of course.

Afterwards, he retrieved a sonic grenade from his arsenal. He activated it, buried the grenade a few inches in the ground, and hurried away from the blast radius. A spark of light had cut across the night, and the ground shook from the contained explosion. Dirt and grass rose into the night like an earthen geyser, and the child had gasped in awe at the brief spectacle.

The Mandalorian walked over to the aftermath, finding a decent-sized pit embedded in the field like an ugly black eye. He shuffled his boots across the loose dirt in an attempt to make the hole slightly deeper, and then he gathered some twigs from the jungle’s perimeter and tossed them in the middle of his ditch. The flimsy sticks would act as kindling for the fire that he planned to start up so he and Talia could do the actual burning of the spice _in_ the pit. Next, he cut off large branches from the trees and added them to his kindling.

So, everything is prepared on his end. All he needs to do now is see if his Onderonian companion is awake and ready to rid her ship of the coppery drug.

As he nears _Starlight_ , the side-hatch opens, and the ramp lowers to the ground. For a moment, he thinks that Talia had seen him approaching, but then he remembers that she gave instructions for her astrodroid to keep a look out for him. He greatly dislikes the idea of that trash compactor being the one to grant him entrance to the ship. He knows it is stationed in the cockpit, watching his every move with its single lens, and the thought makes him jumpy. He was never comfortable doing a job where he cannot see his opponent. But he especially does not like it when his opponent has a clear view of him while _he_ is blind.

In a huff, he stalks up _Starlight_ ’s ramp, the box-bed with the child hovering directly behind him. Ahead, he notices that all of the lights on-board are turned on. Perhaps Talia is indeed awake. Encouraged by this prospect (because he had no desire to rouse her from her sleep), the bounty hunter enters the ship and turns to his right.

When he goes into the cargo hold, he automatically notices that the labyrinth of boxes has disappeared. Instead, the numerous storage cases and barrels have been re-arranged in an orderly fashion.

 _Someone’s been busy,_ he muses to himself as he scans the room. He hopes Talia did not strain herself as she moved her cargo around, yet he figures that she must have had her droid help her with the heavier cases.

A smirk reaches his lips as he thinks about her ordering her metal pet to push the hefty cargo from one end of the room to the other. He can imagine the grumbled whistles and high-pitched beeps being unleashed from the droid and echoing throughout the hold.

Upon surveying the room, he notes that Talia’s mattress is still in its corner; however, she stacked up some boxes and arranged them to form two walls around her sleeping area. Where her make-shift walls would have met, she had left a spacious gap there, to act as an entrance. Undoubtedly, the small cubicle she made for herself was to give her some privacy. But that does not stop him from taking a step closer and peering inside.

Her room is empty, for which he is thankful for. He sees that her bed is made, its navy-blue comforter embellished with bronze thread and free of wrinkles. Decorative pillows match the comforter in various shades of blue and brown and are stacked nicely in the corner.

Off to the side, lying on the cold metal floor, is a long suitcase with its cover removed. A royal purple blanket is folded on top of the luggage, yet what catches his eye is the Mythosaur skull embroidered into the material in thick black strands. The Mandalorian symbol seems rugged and harsh compared to Talia’s fancy Onderonian comforter and pillows, which makes him think that was the reason why she had folded up the blanket and set it away from her mattress altogether.

He feels his mouth lift in a half-smile as he steps away from her cubicle. It seems that even though Talia had left her homeworld behind, she has no intention of forgetting her roots, especially her Mandalorian ones.

The rest of the storage area is more open than it was before. Talia had stacked her cargo up against the hold’s walls on both sides. Gray barrels are in straight lines, and charcoal cases are piled in box-like mountains. He wonders if Talia has an organization system, to help her remember where everything is.

This thought is forgotten as he takes in the center of the room, which looks as if it is a make-shift kitchen. There are boxes acting as counters, flanking a stove of some sorts—or, at least a contraption made for cooking. And shortly following her kitchen arrangement, he can see large cushions stationed across the floor. It must be a place where she can eat her meals, like a dining area, but on the ground.

Beside him, he hears a disappointed huff. He looks down and finds the child frowning at the cargo hold’s new layout. His pointy ears twitch as he leans his little body closer, as if he cannot believe this is the same room where he had befriended a furry land-octopus.

“Looks different, huh?” the bounty hunter cannot stop himself from asking. He smirks when the kid’s mouth quivers into a pout.

As the man takes in the room one more time, he notices five boxes stashed to the side. They are sitting near the compartment’s back door in two piles, one stacked with three boxes and the other with two. Could those be the cases where the spice is stored? He had only discovered three earlier.

 _Talia must’ve checked her inventory,_ he deduces. _And she found two more._

However, going through every single one of these boxes would have taken so much of her time. Though he is impressed at how orderly the cargo hold now looks, he is surprised that Talia, along with the droid, had been able to re-arrange the entire room during his absence. Did she get any rest at all? He figures that less than nine hours have passed since he has been on _Starlight_ , which is more than enough time to do this. But had Talia strained herself or re-opened her wound? Maybe the reason why she is not here is because she is taking care of her injury in another room, away from him and his reprimands.

 _It’s not that I’m really concerned about her,_ he tells himself as he commands the child’s box-bed to settle amongst the thick sitting-cushions in the middle of room.

“Stay here,” he orders the green baby.

 _We have a job to do,_ he grumbles while exiting the cargo hold. _She’ll be of no help to me if she got hurt, again. And here I thought the whole idea of me leaving hours ago was so she can rest and not play house!_ He huffs at the possibility and tries his best not to get annoyed with the woman.

He marches down the hallway and veers left. Peeking his head in the cockpit, he finds the astrodroid plugged into the nav-computer. It swivels its head and beeps at him, but since Talia is not in there, the bounty hunter ignores the metal nuisance and leaves.

With his mind set on the last room, he then walks further down the hall until he reaches the end. As he stands in front of the wash-room’s door, he hears some shuffling noises coming from the inside.

“I’ll be out soon,” Talia says before he can do anything, like knock.

How she figured out that he is standing in front of the thick metal door—he has no idea. Talia must have sharp senses to have heard him. But then, his footsteps were not exactly quiet as he stalked towards this side of her ship. He notices that her refined accent, though muffled, had sounded alert and refreshed; there was not even a slightest hint of pain or exhaustion. Perhaps she had rested after all.

Satisfied for the time being that Talia is well, he turns around and goes back to the cargo hold. When he arrives, he finds the child out of his box-bed and making himself comfortable on top of a sitting-cushion. His brown eyes light up the moment he sees his guardian.

“We may be waiting for a while, kid,” he confides. He is willing to bet that Talia’s definition of ‘soon’ really means ten minutes.

Not one to waste time, the bounty hunter strides over to the room’s back hatch and presses a button on the control panel stationed nearby. The large door hisses as it slides open and as the ramp lowers to the ground. Metal scrapes against metal, and in less than fifteen seconds, he is staring at the thick Cholganna night. Another cool breeze passes by, filling up the cargo hold. He walks around the two box-piles closest to the door and sits down on top of the smaller stack.

 _The spice boxes,_ he reminds himself as he looks down at his make-shift seat.

Time races by—or Talia’s definition of ‘soon’ truly means two minutes—because he had not been waiting long before he hears boots thudding on the metal floor, the noise followed closely by the turning wheels of a chatty droid. Still keeping his focus down towards the spice cargo, the bounty hunter takes his time to lift up his gaze, wanting to survey Talia with a critical eye, to see if she had gotten any rest.

He first notes her footwear: brown leather boots that stop right below her knees. They are simple-looking and worn out just a little, but they are a great improvement compared to the dainty, green slippers she had been wearing. So, his eyes trail upward, observing her trousers. They are brown with looser material at the upper legs, but the fabric soon gathers below the knee.

Next is her tunic—which is probably the plainest one that she owns. With a V-neck collar, the tunic has three-quarter sleeves. It is light brown in color and looks coarse to the touch. The tunic itself flows down, reaching several inches past her waist. He figures the reason why she chose it was because, due to its flowy style around the abdomen, it can grant her easy access to her Bacta patch underneath. But compared to her regal, velvety green tunic, this one looks like something an Onderonian peasant would wear.

Hanging around her neck is a royal blue shawl, which—he notices—that Talia had scrunched together to make it look as if it was a long scarf. As smooth as silk, it drapes over her front like a waterfall. For some reason his fingers itch to run across the material, to see for himself if it is as soft as it was boasting. At the hem of the shawl is a flower-and-vines design, embroidered with gold thread. If it were not for that elegant pattern and the shawl itself, he would not have guessed that Talia was a royal advisor or a member of the aristocracy.

She is now standing a few feet away from him, her hands clasped in front of her. As her cylinder-shaped droid parks itself on her right side, the Mandalorian takes in the fingerless hand-wraps that Talia is wearing. Matching her boots in color and material, they are slightly worn out and are secured by thin leather straps, which are tied above her wrists. The wraps are a major change from the expensive jewelry that she had been wearing. Yet, he finds himself missing the black gold ring with its amethyst stone that reminded him of their Mandalorian connection. But he shakes his head, clearing away that random thought.

Over all, he approves of Talia’s [new wardrobe](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/612500941318635520/chapter-xv-bucket-of-bolts-from-my-weapon-my). It is practical and simple, and he hopes her clothes will reflect the attitude she will don when he presses her for more information about herself.

“You look rested,” she quips at him, a smile in her accent.

While his gaze reaches up to study her face, the back of his brain notes that she had styled her dark hair into a thick braid again. The smirk on her dark pink lips is playful, and her brown eyes sparkle. To him, she seems refreshed and unharmed from her earlier activities. Why had he been so concerned—no, _curious_ about her well-being? She looks fine.

“So do you,” he replies, trying to keep his voice flat. “By the way, I like what you’ve done to the place.” He points his chin at the cargo room.

She chuckles at this, surveying the compartment for herself. Her smile grows even more the instant she spots the child relaxing on a sitting-cushion. Quickly, she turns around and walks over to where the little one is, her droid following her again. And _that_ is when the bounty hunter spies, on her right side, a blaster pistol nestled in a brown leather [holster](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/612500941318635520/chapter-xv-bucket-of-bolts-from-my-weapon-my). Talia’s flowy tunic had kept the holster and its belt hidden from his view. It is a good thing she had turned around when she did.

While she squats in front of the child and quietly talks to him, his guardian studies the new addition to the woman’s attire. From what he can see, the holster itself is simple-looking with a thin strip of leather connected near the end of her blaster’s leather compartment. This extra piece is strapped around Talia’s upper thigh, a feature that allows the wearer to keep their weapon close by. But as for the blaster pistol, he cannot identify its type. He will need to get a better look at it—a task he fully intends to complete before the day ends.

Beside Talia, the droid whistles in awe at the child, who has waltzed closer to the bucket of bolts. With his three-fingered hands he pats the droid’s lower abdomen once then twice, harder the second time. The droid chirps angrily before rolling back a foot away from the child. The Mandalorian watches as his charge tries to follow the metal nuisance but is stopped by Talia.

“Let’s give R6 some room, okay?” she calmly says to the baby alien, blocking him with her hand.

The bounty hunter feels his body relax, and he just realizes that his muscles had tensed up as he witnessed this event. He cannot forget about the last droid that had gotten so close to the child. His jaw clenches when he thinks about the IG assassin droid who very nearly murdered the innocent alien in his cradle. Even though Talia’s tin-can looks the complete opposite of the IG unit, his mind is simply unable to differentiate between the two automatons. To him, droids are still droids. And they all have the ability to kill.

Not wanting the kid to become more fascinated with the trash compactor, the Mandalorian loudly clears his throat. Impatience bleeds through his tone when he asks, “Shall we? Dawn isn’t that far off.”

“Sorry,” Talia says, standing up. Her royal blue shawl ripples from her movements, and he again finds himself curious to know how soft it is. Glancing down at the child, she whispers, “We’ll talk later, youngling.”

* * *

*** Introducing R6-D12 ***

Talia's Attire:

Talia's blaster pistol holster/belt:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of the Mandalorian phrases? I found a great place with words, proverbs, terms, etc. all in Mandalorian! I'm excited to incorporate more of the language.


	16. Fiery Silhouettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter that I've written so far! And I had more fun with the Mandalorian language. I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter XVI: Fiery Silhouettes

They left the baby on-board _Starlight_ , and much to the bounty hunter’s unease, the astrodroid stayed behind, too. He does not trust that bucket of bolts with the special alien, and he keeps looking over his shoulder every few minutes towards the open cargo hatch, glaring at the droid. Who knows what it can do to his charge?

“Don’t be so worried,” Talia calmly says, breaking the silence between them. When he turns to look at her, he finds her pouring a canister of the dusty spice into a sack. With her gaze focused on her task, she adds, “The youngling can’t get into much trouble sleeping.”

He walks over to the pit he had made earlier and kneels in front of the pile of twigs and tree branches. As he lights the kindling, he replies, “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

A single flame consumes the twigs and soon jumps to the large branches. Greedily, the fire eats away at the branches’ leaves, and he swiftly puts some distance between his soon-to-be bonfire and himself. With his back turned, he can feel a small wave of heat, which makes him quicken his pace.

When he joins Talia, he ignores the curious look on her face. He grabs a spice canister and an empty sack, removes the canister’s lid, and pours the drug into the sack. He repeats this with another canister.

Earlier, Talia had suggested they eliminate the spice using this method; she argued that it was safer than tossing the powder straight from the canister into the fire. And he agreed. He did not think it wise to let the spice fly in the air, especially since the wind had been blowing inconsistently the past hour—which is the main reason why he decided to leave the child on _Starlight_. He would not chance the little one catching a whiff of the drug, and he felt it would be a waste of time if he locked up the child back on the _Crest_. So, the best option was to let his ward sleep in _Starlight_ ’s cargo hold. However, the bounty hunter did not count on the astrodroid staying on the Onderonian ship, too.

“You really don’t like droids, do you?” he hears Talia ask.

He fills his sack with the contents of a third canister before answering. “I don’t trust them.” He twists the sack’s opening and ties it with a thick knot.

“Bad history?”

“You can say that,” he practically snorts out. Turning, he throws the sack heavy with the Sansanna spice into the fire.

In less than five seconds the flames double in size, its orange fingers reaching for the stars above. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Talia pull her shawl over her head before tossing her sack into their bonfire. The flames double even more, forcing her to take a step back, away from the overwhelming temperature. But the bounty hunter remains where he is. It does not matter that the heat penetrates his clothing, nearly blistering his skin as if it was high-noon on Tatooine with its twin suns roasting victims on the Dune Sea. With his boots rooted to the ground, his eyes are mesmerized by the [bright orange fire](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/613138174920818688/chapter-xvi-fiery-silhouettes) as it dances in the night.

The flames shimmer and battle the darkness, twisting its outline every half-second like an amoeba. Deep within the inferno he sees shapes forming, moving, rolling. With each passing second, they grow larger. His pulse quickens when he identifies them as Droidekas, spinning their bronze and ebony bodies to and fro. They pause for a split second before smoothly unfolding themselves. His muscles tense as he watches the destroyer droids’ fiery silhouettes stand on their three legs and then begin marching—marching towards him. The crackling fire mimics the sounds of the Droidekas’ steps.

_Clank, clank, clank._

He remembers the red laser bolts released from those rolling droids, how they buzzed in the air, creating sparks and fire at point of contact. Their shield generators, forming a bluish bubble around them, flashed in the sun, boasting of how impenetrable they were. He can never forget the high-pitched shrill that had come from his mother the instant she saw the battle droids tumbling through their rural city. She had grabbed ahold of his arm and practically dragged him in the opposite direction, looking for his father. Fear radiated from her touch and spread to him. It paralyzed his legs, and he crumbled into the dirt.

A gentle hand on his bicep coaxes him back to the present. He flinches half an inch, and he gives his head a mental shake. He looks down, finding Talia’s hand on his tense upper arm. Her leather wrap covers most of her hand, but he can still see her slim fingers as they give him a reassuring squeeze. He allows his gaze to travel up her arm until he reaches her face. Her shawl covers her head and half her face, just like when they first met, but this does not bother him as it had before. It feels oddly normal to find her staring up at him like this. He still thinks it strange that her eyes continue to roam across his helmet; after all, nothing has changed since the last dozen times she has studied it. And yet, her gaze lingers on the Beskar mask as if she is . . . searching for something.

“A credit for your thoughts?” she quietly asks. “You really should open up more. At least a little.”

His instinct (like the first time she touched him in this way) is to yank his arm free of her grasp. He can _not_ show any signs of weakness—a factor that is usually avoided since no one is able to see his face. But for some reason, Talia has had this habit of looking at him as if she can see him, _really_ see him. It should alarm him, and if he was as clever as his reputation says he is, he should put as much distance as possible between Talia and him.

Yet, she radiates some kind of an alluring. . . serenity, one that he wishes he had the luxury of feeling. Her dark eyes, reflecting the dancing flames, are compassionate, and he finds himself wanting to—

 _No,_ his brain scolds him. _It’s_ none _of her business._

“I’m fine,” he tells her, keeping his voice flat.

As he turns back to the spice cargo, he feels her fingers slowly slide across his bicep, leaving a trail of goosebumps. It is as if she is reluctant to let him go, and for some reason . . . he shivers.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Over the next hour, they work in silence, burning the spice sack by sack. The bonfire is the biggest he has seen in years. Its flames are such a bright orange that the color does not even look real. Sparks flee into the daunting purple sky, joining the fading stars above before being disintegrated by the wind.

Beside him, Talia has thrown the final sack into the fire. He is thankful she had chosen not to pursue their earlier conversation about droids. Like him, she focused on destroying the coppery drug and nothing else.

Together they stand several feet away from the flickering flames. He notices Talia uncover her head and wrap her shawl around her shoulders. The royal blue fabric shimmers in the fire’s light as the extra material hangs over her arms.

“Thank you,” he hears her say.

“For what?” He glances at her.

“For helping me,” she replies, craning her neck so she can look at him. “You made things easier for me. And faster.”

He holds her gaze, her eyes having a tint of copper from the flames’ glow. He gives her a curt nod before turning to study the bonfire again.

Helping Talia destroy the unwanted spice was the least he could do. He knows he barely chipped away at the debt he owes her, but he has to start somewhere.

Not for the first time, he tries to figure out how he can fully repay her and how long it will take. He knows he does not have to follow her around until she tells him that he fulfilled his debt. They can go separate ways, and she can send for him if or when she ever needs his help. But being at her beck and call like some kind of a servant leaves a sour taste in his mouth. If he is lucky, he might be able to pay her back with one significant deed—like saving _her_ life. Yet something tells him she would not admit of needing help like that. If she is as stubborn as every Mandalorian he knows, including himself, she would rather be on death’s door than ask to be rescued.

 _A bounty hunter indebted to a politician,_ he muses.

The idea is so backwards he wants to laugh. Usually, it is the other way around. Politicians would hire bounty hunters to assassinate enemies or cause trouble for their counterparts. The hunters’ rewards have been known to range from credits to pardons to favors. It makes him wonder how many people in his line of work have been in his situation with Talia before. After all, what kind of respectable person would save a bounty hunter’s life?

“You didn’t have to push me out of the way when the Nexu charged,” he comments off-handedly. For a moment, he is not sure if he is reprimanding her for her lack in judgment or admitting that he was not worth risking her life. “You could’ve just gotten my attention and told me to move.”

A soft chuckle escapes her, and she shakes her head. “It would’ve been too late. Besides,” she adds, sending him a teasing smile, “what was I going to say? ‘Move whatever-your-name-is! The Nexu’s right behind you’?”

A half-smile raises his mouth. “‘Duck’ or ‘get away’ would’ve been enough.”

“Well,” she begins, lowering her voice a notch, “I think a name would’ve been much better.”

He tilts his head down to look at her. A sparkle flashes in her eyes, and he wants to shake his head. They both know it is a conspicuous attempt on her part to find out his name, but he refuses to humor her despite the half-centimeter urge in him that may or may not want to confide in her. His identity is his own. All that matters is that he is a Mandalorian, a single weapon in his Tribe’s arsenal.

 _This is the way,_ he quotes to himself.

“You still don’t trust me with your name?” Talia presses. He detects a hint of disappointment in her refined accent.

“Trust,” he slowly states, “isn’t everything. It’s honor.”

He studies the orange bonfire before them; it has begun to dwindle, its flames not reaching the purple sky as much as it had been. He expects the once impressive inferno to return to a regular campfire in the next twenty minutes or so.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Talia is fiddling with the hem of her silky shawl. Her fingers glide across the embroidered flowers and vines, the gold thread catching the light of the fire. As she plays with her shawl, she breaks the temporary silence lingering between them.

“I’m not going to force you to tell me your name by using your debt to me as leverage.” She glances at him, her expression neutral. “But I would like to know why you keep your name so secret. You’ve explained why you wear your helmet, even if I still think your reason is fanatical,” she says, and her verbal poke almost makes him chuckle. “But why can’t you tell me your name? Is your identity very . . . well-known?”

 _Far from it,_ his mind answers. _I’m a nobody from a dying Tribe._

“I’m not one to complain,” she admits to him with a half-smile. “But I only think it’s fair that you tell me something about you. I mean, _I_ shared more about myself than I would’ve done with most people. Especially with a bounty hunter,” she mutters under her breath.

From the way she said the last part, he feels offended—though, he cannot explain why. Who does she think she is, looking down at his job? At his way of life? Not everyone has the chance to make a decent-living; on the other hand, he would not put politics in that category either. Her job can be just as mercenary as his. Who is she to judge him when he suspects her cloak-and-dagger life, sludging through politics, has left her stains and a compromised conscience?

His jaw clenches as he tries to force Talia out of his peripheral vision. Hours ago, she had called him a warrior. Respect was bleeding through her perfect Mandalorian accent when she said the word that even an idiot would have heard it. Now, she calls him a bounty hunter in a way that sounds as if members from his vocation are a bunch of low lives. Oh, yes. Her tone and words _do_ offend him, very much.

Yet . . . deep down, he knows what she said rings true. There is no real honor tracking down living souls, capturing them by any means necessary, and leaving them at the mercy of the ones who had placed the bounties. And all for the sake of money. Sure, some of the quarries are criminals—mostly swindlers and murderers. Although he is no judge nor a huge follower of justice, he thinks that quarries like them deserve whatever punishment the hunters’ clients unleash.

But then, he cannot forget about the poor souls who simply were at the wrong place at the wrong time, who accidentally got on a powerful person’s corrupt side. Those souls are on the run or have no idea of the bounties on their heads. Before they can even consider the danger that they are in, a hunter storms in, wreaking havoc on the victims’ lives.

If he really thinks about it, he wonders why Mandalorians have entered into this life, why they have accepted this as a part of their culture, boasting about their toughest mission and their clever tricks. Those hailing from his Creed are known as the best bounty hunters throughout the galaxy. Zealous Mandalorians, dedicated to the _Resol’nare_ * and to their way of life, should view bounty hunting with as much distaste as Talia.

 _(_ * _pronounced: RAY-sol NAH-ray; significance: Six Actions, the tenets of the Mandalorian life)_

His words from his last job whisper to him on the wind. He blinks, and it is as if he can see them appear in the bonfire’s flames, the phrase as heartless and unforgiving as the fire itself: _“I can bring you warm. Or I can bring you in cold.”_ All that mattered to him was apprehending in his prize.

For some reason, his helmet feels heavier than usual, and he finds himself lowering his head. His left hand, hanging beside him and out of Talia’s view, forms into a tight fist. She was wrong for calling him a warrior, for he has only ever been a _beroya_ *.

 _(_ * _pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)_

Next to him, he hears Talia sigh in defeat. When she turns away, he looks up, finding her taking four steps to his right. Quickly, he says, “My name . . . isn’t important.”

She stops, but her back is to him. He notes that she tilts her head to the side, a small movement telling him that she is listening. Encouraged, he continues.

“It isn’t what defines me. Or the members of my Tribe.”

“And your helmets do?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “They define you?”

He nods, even though she already turned her head away. So, he explains, “Our helmets are symbols of who we are as a culture. As a united Tribe.”

She turns around, her expression clouded with confusion. As she wraps her arms around herself against a damp wind, she argues, “But you lose your personal identity.”

“It doesn’t matter. _I_ don’t matter. What does is the survival of my Tribe. When people see our helmets, they see one face, one group.”

He watches as she quirks a dark eyebrow at him.

“Mandalorians are made up of individual Clans,” she tells him. “And Clans are made up of individuals. Each person is important to their Clan’s survival. Without that one person, joining with another, there would be no Clans. And no Mandalorians.”

She pauses, and he can almost see her mind trying to word something perfectly so he would understand.

“You’ve traded one identity for another,” she argues, a sadness coloring her accent. “But in the process, you’ve stripped yourself of having an identity that should matter the most: your own.”

He squints at her, not sure what to say. He honestly has not thought about this before, especially not the way Talia has phrased it. He can see why she would disapprove of his Tribe’s doctrine, for Talia has always seemed far more interested in knowing who _he_ is rather than who his Tribe is and what they stand for. But she does not know—nor could she understand—that he _needed_ his identity to be stripped from him all those years ago because hearing people who were not his parents say his name was painful. It was an agonizing reminder that no one could utter those two words with the same warmth and affection like his father and mother. After their deaths, his name had sounded withdrawn and cold whenever the Death Watch members called him or spoke to him. Even when his adoptive mother said it.

When he turned thirteen, he was more than ready to swear himself to the Creed, to don a helmet that would protect him from his past, from the face he knew would resemble his parents. Becoming a Mandalorian forced his name to blend in with the countless of other forgotten names of newly-made Mandalorians. As a withdrawn and bitter teen, he wanted nothing more than for his name to become a distant memory that could one day be nonexistent.

He finds himself wanting for Talia to understand this. And before he can stop himself, he asks, “How old were you when the Clone War started?”

She blinks at him once, then twice, her eyes searching his helmet as to why he changed the subject so quickly. As she tilts her head at him, another gust of damp wind ripples through her shawl.

“Nine,” she answers.

 _So, we_ are _the same age,_ he thinks, tucking away that new piece of information for later. He takes in a deep breath, as if doing so could prepare him to expose even more about himself to a woman he hardly knows yet somehow feels connected to.

“I was nine, too,” he admits. He takes a moment to release his breath before he inhales again. “But I was ten when the Separatists attacked my planet. Their droids killed anyone and anything that moved . . . It was _haran_ *.”

 _(*_ _pronounced_ _: HAH-rahn; translation: “hell”; meaning: literally destruction and cosmic annihilation)_

Talia walks closer to him, her brows wrinkled with sadness. He fuses his gaze with hers, not wanting to see her mouth form into a frown or to catch pity as it etches into her expression like marble. She stands in front of him, thoughtful to leave about two feet in between them.

“Battle droids, the big ones,” he continues, his teeth clenching, “hunted down my people like dogs. Their programing was ruthless.”

“Which is why you hate droids,” Talia figures aloud, her voice soft. “And your family?”

“Dead,” he croaks out, his chest aching from the loss of his parents as if it was yesterday. This is the first time he has told anyone outside of his adoptive family about his past, and the wound inside his soul begins to bleed.

Talia shuts her eyes for a moment before she opens them again. Her gaze is shiny with tears, but she blinks them away. From the way she looks at him, it is as if she knows how he feels, is familiar with the loss that has shaped him into the solitary man he has become—which is impossible. She gives him an understanding nod, slow and serene, and he appreciates that she has not said the usual “I’m sorry” or “My condolences.” He does not want her pity.

“How did you escape?” she asks.

“I didn’t,” he says, turning his head to stare at the dark outline of the jungle. “The Mandalorians saved me.”

“You were adopted.”

“Yes.” His throat feels tight, and he forces himself to swallow. “I was alone, Talia,” he says, looking at her again, bracing himself to see pity in her dark eyes once he finishes. “I was afraid. I didn’t know who I was without my parents. Death Watch saved me. My _buir_ *, she helped me to be strong. She taught me never to be afraid again. The Mandalorians gave me an identity because I lost mine.”

 _(_ * _pronounced_ _: boo-EER; translation: “mother,” and also “father”)_

His mouth is dry, and a trickle of sweat rolls down his back. As he turns away, he swallows hard and studies the jungle’s dark purple tree-line again.

 _This is a bad idea,_ his brain scolds him. _I shouldn’t be telling her this._

He then feels gentle fingers wrap around his left wrist. Surprised, he looks down, suddenly noticing that Talia had closed the distance between them without his knowledge. It is her gesture that makes him realize he had been keeping his hand in a tight fist this entire time, and her touch encourages him to relax his somewhat painful grip. So, he does, his tired hand thanking him.

At this point, he expects Talia to let go, to back away from him since he stopped clenching his hand. But instead, she maneuvers her fingers so that they slide right in between his glove and his sleeve. And at the touch of her soft skin connecting with his, all of his muscles tense. He has _never_ allowed anyone to touch him like this. It is too personal, too . . . something else he cannot identify.

His mind orders him to spring himself free of her, but when Talia oh so delicately strokes the inside of his wrist with her thumb, his mind goes blank. The calmness and serenity he sensed earlier from her seems to wash over him with every stroke she grants him. That wound within him begins to close up, and a strange kind of warmth spreads up his arm and encompasses the rest of him. He closes his eyes briefly, basking in this new-found sensation. When he opens them again, he wonders if this is what genuine comfort feels like.

Deep down, he knows he really should pull away from her. Yet, all he can do is stare at her thumb while something foreign inside his chest purrs with gratitude and . . . pleasure.

“I know what it’s like,” she whispers. “To be separated from family. To be an outsider.”

“But I found a new family,” he says, and even he cannot recognize the vulnerable voice coming from his own mouth.

“As did I.”

With one final stroke of her thumb, Talia releases her tender hold on his wrist, and his skin feels cold. She takes a few steps away from him. “Which Clan took you in?” she asks, gesturing him to follow her.

Like a man deprived of kindness, he walks after her. As he adjusts his strides to match hers, he says, “It really wasn’t a Clan.” When she sends him a curious glance, he reveals, “Death Watch. They’re the ones who saved me.”

She comes to an abrupt halt and lays a hand on his arm, an innocent petition for him to also stop. “Death Watch raised you?”

He nods. “I was a part of their combat corps. Why?”

“It’s just,” she hesitates. He feels more than sees her drop her hand; his eyes are fixated on how she nervously runs her upper teeth over her bottom lip. “Never mind.”

She turns to keep on walking, but this time he reaches out and lays a gloved hand on her upper arm. “No, let’s hear it,” he orders more than encourages, which makes him wince.

“Oh no,” she lightly chuckles, shaking her head. “We’re talking about you right now, not me.”

Rolling his eyes at her, he drops his hand. He did not mean to redirect her attention; he was just curious to know why she seemed to dislike the idea of him being raised by Death Watch. But he decides to humor her.

“Fine,” he replies in a flat tone.

A soft rumble from above makes them both look at the sky. Dawn is approaching, chasing away the night. However, a thick cloud coverage keeps the Cholganna sun from view, dimming the light and painting their surroundings with shades of gray. A damp wind blows through the trees and lifts up his cloak.

“A storm’s coming,” Talia observes, keeping her shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Yeah. I better get the kid.”

“Take a meal with me,” she offers. “As you know, I’m fully stocked. I’m sure you and the youngling must be hungry.”

“He might be,” the bounty hunter says.

He follows her back to _Starlight_. As they walk up the cargo hold’s loading ramp, he finds the child waddling towards them and the astrodroid beeping. He ignores the tin-can, choosing to focus on his charge. The little one’s pointy ears reach for the ceiling before dropping. A small frown creases his wrinkly, green forehead, and Talia chuckles.

“Yes, he’s hungry.” She turns to her droid. “R6, can you go to the cockpit and check the scanners? I want to know how bad the storm will be.”

The bucket of bolts swivels his head and whistles. It plants its third foot on the floor and rolls away.

When the droid exits the cargo hold, the Mandalorian sends Talia a glance. As if sensing his gaze on her, she looks at him. He gives her a grateful nod, which earns him a half-smile and a whispered, _“Ba’gedet’ye_ * _.”_

 _(_ * _pronounced: BAH-geh-DET-yeh; translation: “You're welcome”)_

Talia strides further into the cargo hold, the child at her heels. The man then notices that she chose not to close the hatch, so he figures she is keeping it open for fresh air. He is about to follow the odd pair when another rumble of thunder, louder this time, stops him. Looking over his shoulder, he catches a whiff of rain on the wind. Seconds pass before a sprinkle of raindrops fall from the thick clouds above.

“I should head back to my ship,” he says, turning to his Mandalorian companion. “Before the storm gets really bad.”

Talia is opening up the cargo boxes that have been acting as her kitchen’s counters. She pulls out some pots and other cooking utensils.

“You’re not imposing if that’s what you think,” she replies, casting a glance at him before rummaging through her box again. “The two of you can eat here with me. Besides—” She sends him a teasing smile over her shoulder. “—we don’t want you to rust shut in your armor.” She laughs at her own joke, and he shakes his head.

Not wanting to get in her way, he decides to stay where he is, next to the cargo hold’s open hatch. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms in front of him. He surveys the landscape as the sprinkling shower morphs into fat raindrops, turning the field in one mushy grass carpet. Across the way, his bonfire has been terminated, and a thin wisp of steam floats into the air.

Every now and then, he checks on the kid, making sure he does not bother Talia. But he would be lying to himself if he does not admit that he glances in that direction so he can watch Talia herself. There are still some things about the woman that puzzle him, like her interest in the kid. Getting her to open up has not been too much of a challenge, and he is ready to learn more about her.

 _‘I am ready,’_ the phrase whispers to him. The tiny Mandalorian writing had been engraved on the band of her black gold and amethyst stone ring. He never did find out what it means, though he suspects its significance. Perhaps now is the time to ask her.

“What does ‘I am ready’ mean to you?” he asks, watching her with a careful eye. He finds it curious that she pauses in her food preparations but continues after a few seconds.

“It’s my Clan’s motto,” she replies as she throws some kind of vegetable into a stew pot. “It means we are available to do our duty at all times. We are dependable. We are loyal. We will do whatever is necessary,” she explains, putting the pot on her stove and turning on the burner. “We speak and act and think as one. Whenever we’re called for anything, together we will answer with one voice.” She glances over her shoulder at him. “I am ready.”

He hums to himself, impressed with Kex’s conviction. It is an ardent declaration, and he cannot help but compare it to his own Tribe’s motto.

“This is the way,” he recites aloud.

At this, Talia stops cooking and turns around. Her brows lift up, asking him to give her an explanation.

“That’s my Tribe’s,” he admits.

Her eyes light up, which he knew they would since this is the only hint that he has given to her concerning his Mandalorian group.

“That’s interesting,” she remarks. “But I’m not familiar with the phrase.”

Knowing it is now or never to peel back a little more of his background, he says, “Ordo. I’m from Tribe Ordo.”

It takes two seconds for his words to sink in. Once it does, he watches as her eyes grow big, her lips part, and her dark brows shoot up. She blinks at him several times, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch into a half-smile.

“You said that Kex is an ally of Ordo,” he reminds her though he doubts she needs it. “So,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders, “I guess we’re allies in more ways than one.”

“You’re really from Ordo?” she presses, skepticism painting her voice. Her gaze slowly drops, and she wrings her hands together. “It seems as if . . . fate,” she whispers to herself, “has brought us all together.” She turns to the child, who is chewing on some type of tuber.

The bounty hunter inwardly scoffs at her words. He is not one to believe in fate. Luck maybe, but there is no such thing as destiny.

“Ordo has changed,” Talia softly tells him. “Your Clan’s old words use to be, ‘Ready for all. Yielding to none.’”

“That’s an honorable saying,” he comments, actually liking it. “Sounds like your Clan’s.”

He sees her smile to herself, as if she is enjoying a private joke, one that he wants to hear.

“Well, Kex based theirs on Ordo’s. They were inspired by them. Though,” she smirks as she looks him over with mock criticism, “I’ve always wondered why.”

Feeling bold, he teases her back. “Isn’t is obvious? We’re the superior Clan.”

“Oh really?” She sets her hands on her hips and quirks an eyebrow at him. “You speaking for Ordo or for yourself?”

“Both.”

“I doubt it, Ordo,” she quips at him. “You seem to me like . . . How do we put it?” She taps her chin with a hand, looking up at the ceiling as if it could help her find the right words. “Oh, yes: _Ori’buyce, kih’kovid_ *.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: OH-ree-BOO-shay, KEE-koh-VEED)_

Automatically, the phrase translates in his mind: ‘All helmet, no head.’ It was a common phrase of ridicule towards anyone who has an over-developed sense of authority. He and some of his Tribe members would usually throw this at the latest Mandalorian whom their Armorer seemed to favor with responsibility. Sometimes the privilege would inflate the Mandalorian’s head that he and his co-conspirators would wonder how the chosen member could keep their helmet on.

But Talia calling him that? Nah, she is wrong indeed.

“Think you’re off on that, Kex,” he replies, crossing his arms.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She smiles, and it emanates playfulness and ease. While mimicking his posture, she says, “When we first ran into each other in space, you were ordering me around as if you were born with a scepter in your hand.”

For appearance’s sake, he keeps his face straight but lowers his eyes. He had told her what to do, expecting to be obeyed. He ordered her to stop following his ship, to leave him and the child alone, to mind her own business, to open up about her past—the list seems endless. Most people have listened to his instructions because they feared him, feared his Mandalorian culture. But not Talia. She side-stepped his demands yet made some of her own like the aristocrat that she is. So, he is not the only one who fits the old phrase.

“Sounds like you’re describing yourself,” he retaliates, a smirk bleeding through his tone.

It entertains him to see her open her mouth to defend herself before changing her mind. She sends him a cynical but mischievous look, her eyes squinting at him.

“Well,” she replies after a few seconds, “at least I was nicer about it than you were.”

With that, she spins around and returns to the food preparations. He shakes his head at her, figuring that she must have had the final word countless of times at the Onderonian court. He should not find this character trait amusing—people like this are stubborn and hardly ever admit they are wrong about anything. They can be a pain in the neck to work with, and that has already proven true with Talia.

 _Only when you first met her,_ a voice whispers to him, and it sounds eerily like his Armorer’s.


	17. Pieces Sliding Into Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! I am thrilled that my story has reached over 2,000 hits. Words can't describe how happy and honored I am that so many have returned for each update. Thank you to everyone! Enjoy the next chapter!

Chapter XVII: Pieces Sliding into Place

“The food is done,” Talia calls out to him. He is still leaning against the wall near the cargo hold’s open hatch, lost in thought.

Outside, the rain had stopped pouring about half an hour ago, but there is still a thick cloud coverage looming above. The astrodroid had come in the storage room earlier and chirped some mechanical nonsense to Talia, who had said—as the droid rolled back into the cockpit—that the storm was mild and would be over by mid-day, about seven hours from now.

The Mandalorian walks further into the cargo hold, finding the child sitting on one of the large cushions with a bowl of stew in his green hands. He sees Talia scooping more of the food into another dish, and he knows it is for him. But he cannot eat, not here. And not in front of her.

“I’m,” he clears his throat. “I’m not hungry.”

The aroma of the stew reaches his nostrils, and he feels his stomach twist. Thankfully, it does not growl and give him away. He decides to wait for the child to finish eating before taking him back to the _Crest_ so he can scrounge up a meal for himself.

“Sure you aren’t,” Talia remarks, sarcasm coloring her accent. She turns around, a steaming bowl in her hands. “I’ve made enough for seconds. You should eat something.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists. “But thanks.”

When she arches a dark brow at him, he knows this subject is far from over. He is about to turn away to emphasize his point when her voice stops him.

“It’s because of your helmet,” she states more than asks, having figured out his reasoning. “You need to eat in a place where I won’t be able see you.”

Keeping his face straight, he drops his eyes to the stew shimmering with heat and smelling delicious with every passing second.

“All right then, Ordo,” she sighs. “You have a few options. You can eat over there,” she says, pointing at her bedroom cubicle with her chin. “In the cockpit with R6. Or in here. I’ll turn my back to you—and the youngling’s if you want—so you can eat without us seeing you.”

He watches her set his bowl on the box-counter behind her, next to a steaming drink, a spoon, and a plate of bread.

“It’s your choice,” she tells him as she pours stew into a bowl of her own. “I doubt you want to eat in the privy, even if that’s the most private room onboard.” She chuckles at her words then clears her throat. “But you should eat. We’ve all had a long morning.” She walks past him with one hand holding a bowl of stew with a spoon in it while the other has a plate of bread balancing a cup of a hot beverage on top.

As she joins the child, he goes through his options. The thought of eating in Talia’s make-shift room, surrounded by her cushions and clothes, feels awkward to him—and too personal. And the cockpit with the droid is not an option either; he refuses to let that tin-can see his face.

His stomach churns, and it feels like it would eat itself soon if he does not get some food. He glances over his shoulder, finding Talia with her back to him already. She even turned the child around. Beyond them, he notices that it has started to rain buckets outside. Without a jet-pack to ferry him back to his ship in seconds he knows he will be soaked by the time he reaches the _Crest_. So, that only leaves him with one option: he has to eat in the cargo hold with his two companions and to trust that they, especially Talia, will not steal a glance at him.

“Your droid won’t come back?” he questions, walking to the other side of her set-up kitchen.

“There isn’t any need for him to,” she answers.

Deciding to use the cargo-counters as his table, he re-locates his meal closer to him. With his back to the storage room’s door, he waits, studying Talia as she settles herself comfortably on her large sitting-cushion. She crosses her legs and tells the child not to slurp up his stew too fast.

His hands reach for his helmet, but he cannot seem to remove it. All it would take is for Talia to glance over her shoulder, and that would be it: he could never put his helmet back on.

“I won’t look,” she quietly says, as if she can sense his unease. _“Ni oritsir bah ijaat gar vercopa*.”_

_(*pronounced: Nee oh-REET-seer bah ee-JAHT gahr vair-KOH-pa; translation: “I swear to honor your wish.”)_

He knows he should be grateful to her, for being willing to work with him on this sacred doctrine his Tribe upholds even when she does not understand it. And for giving him free reign to settle anywhere onboard her ship. But before he can stop himself, he mutters under his breath, _“Gar jate-shya*.”_

_(*pronounced: Gahr JAH-tay-SHEE-ah; translation: “You better.”)_

As he reaches for his helmet again, he notices that she inclines her head to the side, and he knows she heard him. Yet she says nothing and continues to eat her meal.

Somewhat satisfied but still feeling uncomfortable, he removes his helmet and sets it on the counter next to his meal. He allows his eyes to adjust to the cargo room’s bright lights by blinking them for a few seconds. Then, he looks at Talia. She has not turned around. His eyes study her erect posture and the way her long braid hangs down her back. Without his visor giving a gray tint to his surroundings he realizes how dark her braided tresses are, like rich soil ready for planting season.

His stomach rumbles, reminding him of how empty it is. He grabs his spoon and begins to eat quickly.

The stew is well-seasoned and very satisfying. Its orange-red broth is thin, yet not watery, with a twinge of spiciness in the aftertaste. There are green vegetables floating in it and a type of yellow tuber cut into bite-sized cubes. The potato-like pieces have soaked up the broth, and when he eats them, he can detect just a hint of sweetness. He finds cubed meat also in the stew. It looks dark brown and is probably from some kind of cattle. The cubes melt in his mouth, and he briefly closes his eyes, feeling spoiled by how delicious it is.

Reaching for his beverage, he takes a hesitant sip. He recognizes it as _shig¹_ , but the tea has not been infused with _behot_ ². Talia _did_ use an herb that has a citrus flavor like behot, yet as he swirls the tea in his mouth, he tastes a lightness of flavor about her shig that he finds appealing.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: sheeg_ ² _pronounced: beh-HOHT)_

Finished with his stew, he eyes the plate containing the flat bread that Talia had given to him. Upon closer inspection of the pale-yellow bread, he identifies it as _uj’alayi_ ¹, a Mandalorian sweet cake. He removes his glove and breaks off a piece. The soft texture of the bread between his fingers surprises him; usually, the uj cakes that he has come across are as tough as _haashun_ ² and can chip even the hardest of teeth. He pops a piece of the somewhat fresh cake into his mouth, and his taste buds are greeted with crushed nuts, dried berries, and a cinnamon-like spice.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: oo-jah-LIE-ee_ ² _pronounced:_ _HAH-shoon)_

Taking another sip of his shig, he devours the rest of the dessert then licks his fingers. He can taste the sticky _uj’ayl_ * syrup that keeps the bread together like sweet glue. Talia’s uj’alayi is thick, almost dense, but it is not overwhelming in sweetness compared to most versions of this cake. He figures that is due to the berries, for they give off a tartness that he likes very much.

 _(_ * _pronounced:_ _oo-JAY-ul)_

With his stomach contentedly filled with a hearty, Mandalorian meal he stretches his arms above him and quietly yawns. His eyes feel heavy, and he has the sudden longing to crawl onto a well-padded mattress and sleep. He shakes his head, a successful attempt to wake himself up. Blinking rapidly, he runs his bare hand over his chin. He can feel a thin layer of scruff growing along his jaw, the hair prickly like sandpaper. As he puts his glove back on, he figures he will have to shave very soon.

He grabs his helmet, its weight familiar and reassuring in his hands. He is about to slip it back on, but he stops. He takes this moment to steal one more glance at Talia and the child. They are still enjoying their meal together, the Onderonian woman guiding a cup of shig to the baby’s lips. The bounty hunter memorizes how the cargo hold’s lights shine down on her dark tresses, giving her flyaway hairs a brighter hue than they really are. He doubts he will see either her or the child as clearly as he does now for quite some time.

Straightening his shoulders, he puts on his helmet and joins his unique companions. As he settles onto a sitting-cushion beside Talia, he notes that she and the kid have eaten about half of their food so far. Talia sends him a welcoming smile, small and soft, and he nods at her.

“Finished already?” she asks before eating another spoonful of stew.

“It was good,” he automatically replies. For a moment, he debates whether he should say anything else.

 _Why not?_ he decides, running his hands over his upper thighs to brush away the wrinkles creasing his trousers. _What’s the harm?_

“It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while,” he admits as he turns his head to his right so he can check the weather. The rain has decreased, and he catches a flash of lightning beyond the jungle’s tree-line.

“Thanks for the compliment,” he hears Talia say, and he can detect a smile in her Onderonian accent. “Does the youngling eat sweets?” she asks.

He glances at her then at the baby. The green alien is poking at Talia’s uj’alayi with his three-fingered hand. His wrinkly face displays curiosity; he leans in closer to the cake and takes a few sniffs.

“I don’t know,” the Mandalorian answers. “I haven’t had him long enough for me to figure out what he should be eating.”

“Or shouldn’t be,” she observes. “But we won’t know unless we see for ourselves.”

Before he can decide to let the child eat the sweet cake, Talia breaks off a small piece of the dessert and hands it to the baby. They both watch him sniff at the pale-yellow cake before stuffing it in his mouth. Crumbs fall onto his sitting-cushion as he chews. In less than three seconds, the child’s brown eyes widen, and a grin stretches across his green lips, his tiny teeth visible. He sweeps his gaze over to where Talia is sitting and reaches for the second piece of the uj cake in her hand, his pointy ears stretching to the ceiling.

“Guess he likes it,” the bounty hunter dryly remarks, which earns him a chuckle from Talia, who then gives the little one his next portion. “How much are you going to let him eat?” he asks when she breaks off a third piece.

“Just this last one,” she promises, handing the cake to the child. Then, she picks up the plate with her dessert and finishes the rest of it herself.

The bounty hunter expects the kid to send Talia a pout for taking the cake away, but he is surprised that his ward seems content with the portions given to him. Soon, he returns to his red stew.

“What’s your interest in the kid?” he blurts out.

If anyone asked him, it was a question long past overdue, yet so far, he has not found the right moment to throw it at her again. But from the way Talia looks up, her eyes staring straight ahead, he thinks right now had not been the best time to ask her after all. He surveys her, from her knee-high boots all the way to her silky blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. There is a faraway look in her rich, brown eyes, and though he is certain that she is a million miles away, he finds himself wondering where and when she is in her sharp mind.

“You said you were nine when the Clone War started,” she says, still not meeting his gaze.

At first, he wants to groan at her. The last thing he desires is for her to answer his question with one of her own, followed by another lengthy story. He had been hoping for a quick explanation, not more background and a narrative. Annoyance stirs within him, but he pushes it away. He should not be complaining; her longer confessions have been very helpful in trying to figure her out. Her random question, he predicts, should lead him to his answer. So, he decides to humor her and nods in confirmation.

“Did you fight before Death Watch found you? Or even after?” She turns to him, her face startling blank, which makes him realize she is in soldier-report-mode.

“No, not before,” he answers in his gravelly voice. “And not really after. The Mandalorians just trained me.” A question is on the tip of his tongue, and for some reason he cannot explain, he does not want to verbalize it. But his curiosity gets the better of him, so he asks, “Did _you_ fight?”

He waits a heartbeat. Then two. And three. But still, she remains silent. He does not press her to answer, despite the impatience that surges throughout his veins. To distract himself, he adjusts his sitting position by re-crossing his legs.

When Talia does speak, her voice sounds distant, and he knows all too well that she is forcing herself to re-live a part of her history that she has buried deep within herself.

“Yes, I fought,” she admits in a soft voice. “Before the war broke out, my parents had sent me away to . . . the Core Worlds. For schooling.” She pauses, running her top teeth over her bottom lip. “While I was heading back to Onderon,” she continues, “I ran into . . . an uncle of mine. We tried to reach Onderon together, but the war always got in the way. The fighting, too.”

She drops her gaze to her lap, her fingers playing with her hand-wraps. Beside her, the child slurps his stew. When she does not say anything after a minute, the Mandalorian states more than asks, “So, you did fight.”

“My uncle was committed to defending the Republic. And so was I,” she explains.

“But you were just a kid,” he remarks, disbelief painting his tone.

She glances at him, her gaze weathered and tired from her experiences. “War knows no age,” she solemnly tells him. “I destroyed battle droids of all kinds. But I was eleven when . . .” Again, she drops her eyes to her hands sitting in her lap. Her voice sounds delicate when she finishes. “When I took . . . someone’s life.”

 _Eleven._ The word echoes in his ears. _Where was I at that age?_

In a split second, he delves into his memories and recollects that at the time he had been sent to Concordia, Mandalore’s moon. His adoptive mother and most of Tribe Ordo had broken away from Death Watch so they could train their children and the foundlings in an environment free of danger. Gaining first-hand experience surrounded by the enemy was proving to be unsuccessful; they had been losing too many of the kids during their wartime exercises. His buir had been a voice to advocate for the foundlings’ survival.

 _But eleven, to kill someone?_ he asks himself. The thought pricks the inside of his chest. He was sixteen when he took his first life, a vibro-knife to the jugular.

Not wanting to remember more, he finds himself saying, “I’m sorry. That’s very . . . young. Almost too young.”

The smile Talia gives him is small yet grim. When she takes in a deep breath, he sits up slightly straighter. Something tells him that she is getting closer to answering his question.

“During the war, I discovered that my uncle had the child’s gift,” she reveals, and his attention focuses solely on her. “And he was murdered for it.”

Her words are whispered, sending a sinking feeling in his gut. He watches as she clasps her hands together, and he can feel the air between them shift. A heavy layer of sorrow emanates from her, giving him the sudden urge to squirm in his seat.

“Every time I see the youngling, I think of my uncle. There’s this,” she pauses, searching for the right words. “This . . . specialness about him that I recognized because I saw it in my uncle.” She looks at him. Her eyes, though watery, grow hard as she says, “He was . . . incredible. But even he couldn’t protect himself against a company of Imperial soldiers. And if they hadn’t killed him, he would’ve been on the run for the rest of his life.

“I _know_ what the Empire did to people like him. They were treated like lab rats. The lucky ones were killed. And they weren’t shown any mercy.”

“But the Empire’s gone,” he reminds her, trying to keep his voice gentle. He wants to add that she is overreacting, worrying about something that cannot happen, but he holds his tongue.

“It doesn’t matter. The Empire had made people afraid of anyone with the youngling’s gift. I couldn’t help protect my uncle, but I can with the youngling. _That_ ,” she reveals, her voice thick with emotion, “is why I’m interested in him. I want to protect him.”

“That’s what _I’m_ doing,” he says, his tone almost snappy. “What makes you think you can do a better job than me?”

 _I’m a bounty hunter for Concordia’s sake,_ he inwardly huffs. _I fight for a living. It’s nothing new to me._

“I’m not saying that I can,” she argues. “I just . . . I just want to help. I want to know more about him—what he’s capable of.” She turns away from him and looks at the child, who has finished with his stew.

The Mandalorian studies her with a critical eye. Perhaps she is finally being honest with him. From her watery gaze and strained accent, he realizes that this topic is very personal for her. Just like he cannot separate her R6 unit from the B2 battle droids that killed his parents, Talia cannot separate the child’s gift from her beloved uncle’s. He would have to be an idiot not to figure out that she is haunted by what happened to him. And her confession tells to him that she will not let history repeat itself—especially not this time with a gifted baby.

“I believe you,” he murmurs.

Both Talia and the child look at him. While his ward sends him a confused frown, she gives him a brief, grim smile and nods. The child blinks at the two of them then crawls back onto a sitting-cushion.

Feeling a need to ease the emotional thickness in the room, the bounty hunter decides to break the silence. “The little womp rat has done some strange things.”

She hums before asking, “What he did with the Nexu, him forming a mental bond—has he done that before?”

“No. Nothing like that. But,” he hesitates, debating whether to reveal more about how he first met the baby. “He has picked up an animal or two with his mind. The biggest one was a Mudhorn.”

“A what?” She glances at him, her brows lifting.

“Mudhorn,” he repeats.

“I don’t know that animal.”

“Well,” he shrugs as he watches the child yawn. “It’s as big as a Reek, but with a long front horn on top of its snout. It had thick fur and a bossy attitude,” he shares, remembering all too well the bruises he got from being knocked left and right inside the Mudhorn’s stinking cave.

While he described the Arvalan beast, Talia slowly nods her head. Since she does not comment on what a Reek is, he figures that she must be familiar with the bull-like animal.

“It sounds huge,” she remarks.

“It was.”

“And the youngling lifted it in the air?”

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

He blinks at her. He never really thought about it before. So, he stretches his memory and travels back to Arvala-7, to the slick mud and the roaring Mudhorn. He can feel his muscles ache as he remembers that moment when he, exhausted, lifted up his vibrodagger and pointed it in front of him as he waited for the beast to charge. He had been ready to accept his fate right there and then, ready to face his death like a true Mandalorian fighter acknowledging the fact that there was no escape this time, not for him. His ears had eliminated all noise as he held his blade, giving him the chance to escape to a peaceful memory of his parents, even for just a second. He bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly, and released his final breath.

It was not until he realized that he had been waiting _too_ long when he opened his eyes and found the Mudhorn hovering about a foot off the ground. Stunned, he looked around him, not understanding what was happening until he saw the child sitting in his floating cradle. His big eyes were closed in concentration, his little hand outstretched and shaking out of control.

“A foot,” he says, breaking the silence. “The Mudhorn was about a foot off the ground.”

Talia glances back at the kid, who is snuggling deeper into his sitting-cushion, no doubt preparing for a long nap. The Mandalorian watches as she reaches for the kid’s box-bed, pulls out the Nexu pelt, and covers the kid with the fur.

“My uncle told me a story about an alien that looked just like the youngling,” she reveals.

His ears perk up, and he leans forward. “Is that alien still alive?” he asks. He can hear a twinge of desperation in his voice, but he ignores it. Any clue about the kid’s species will be a great help in understanding the kid himself.

When Talia shakes her head, a prick of disappointment inside him makes him wince. He sits back, silently cursing his bad luck.

“I don’t believe so,” she admits. “He was rumored to be over eight hundred years old.”

“Eight hundred . . . ?” he breathes, his mind blown away.

Automatically, he looks at the kid, who is supposedly fifty. To think that the little one can probably live another eight hundred years. The idea should be impossible, despite the fact that the bounty hunter has heard of Wookies also living for centuries. His own life seems like a puff of smoke compared to the kid’s. Who would look out for him when his guardian is gone in—by Mandalore’s blessing—another fifty years? Not for the first time, he wonders what kind of temperament the kid will have by that point.

“He’s fifty right now,” he shares with his companion.

At this, Talia’s wide gaze sweeps over to the child now snuggled in the middle of a large, Onderonian sitting-cushion. Her accent sounds shaky when she says, “I, uh . . . I wasn’t expecting that. I figured he was twenty. Or even thirty.” She turns to him. “Are you . . . are you sure?”

“That’s what I was told. From a fairly reliable source,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders.

Her brows furrow just a little. “Who?”

His brain scrambles for the best way to tell her without giving too much away. He thinks of the political wrestling matches she must have had with the Empire while she was an Onderonian politician. Then, his mind wanders to her gifted uncle, murdered by the Empire. Talia has had bad blood with the Imperials, and he knows she would not like hearing that his information had come from a warlord and his timid scientific sidekick, both hailing from the tyrannical regime.

“The man who hired me to find the kid,” he explains, choosing his words with care. “He had a scientist with him. I think they wanted to study the kid. _They_ said he was fifty years old.”

She nods, slowly. He can see her eyes have that distant, faraway look in them. When her gaze lands on him again, she states more than asks, “And they’re the ones you saved the youngling from.”

In an instant he is transported back to one of their earlier arguments, before the Nexu attack. Talia had figured out that he had saved the kid’s life, which had him inwardly kicking himself for. At the time, he had been trying very hard to keep her out of his business. Now, here he is talking with Talia, sharing things about both him and kid, and not mistrusting her like he was beforehand.

 _I think it’s about time she knows more,_ he decides.

“I was hired to hunt down the kid,” he tells her, not missing her eyes widen ever so slightly. “I was told to bring him in alive. But I didn’t know he was a kid. They said my quarry was fifty years old. And I found out that this particular bounty had ended a lot of people’s lives. Almost every bounty hunter around me had a tracking fob.” He pauses, which gives him time to take in a long breath. “But my payment was Beskar. And lots of it.”

A ghost of a smile plays on her dark pink lips as Talia remarks, “I wondered why your armor looks so new.”

He cannot stop from sending her a half-smile. Knowing that she noticed his armor makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. And he has no idea why.

He clears his throat then says, “After I turned the kid in and took my reward, I kept thinking about what they were doing to him. Something told me he was going to be some kind of experiment. Or dissected. And I couldn’t . . .” He swallows, suddenly finding his throat tight at the mere thought of a dissection on his ward’s tiny body. “I just,” he tries again but stops when his ears register how dry his voice sounds. He clears his throat again.

“You couldn’t abandon him,” Talia softly finishes for him.

When he looks into her eyes, he sees admiration, understanding, and . . . tenderness. And for the smallest of moments, he finds himself wanting to bask in this look.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his voice again. “So, I stormed the place where the kid was being kept and broke him out.”

“Impressive. And where was this? What planet?”

“Nevarro.”

She nodded. “And who hired you?”

At her question, he bites his tongue. He is not sure how Talia is going to take hearing the truth; he had been trying to skirt around it for as long as possible. She might think he was an Imperial sympathizer. Or worse, a hired gun like other bounty hunters. But she should not think that about him, right? After all, the Empire was responsible for practically wiping out his Tribe on Mandalore. Yet still, he hesitates to tell her. For some reason he cannot explain, he does not want her to get the wrong idea about him.

 _I better get this over with,_ he decides, steeling himself for her reaction.

“He was a former Imperial commander.”

He thinks of turning away because he does want to see anger or judgment or even betrayal in her dark eyes. But he forces himself to look at Talia and to meet her gaze. And when he does, he does indeed identify anger, yet it is not directed at him.

“Of course he was,” she says bitterly. “It’s a shame not all of the Imperials haven’t been hunted down like Kath hounds.”

The anger and bitterness that he hears in her voice do not surprise him. Perhaps before this conversation, but not now. However, seeing such cold anger emanating from her usually kind gaze makes him glad they are not enemies. He would not want to be on the opposite side of her blaster.

He watches her close her eyes, an attempt—he assumes—to control her emotions. When she opens them again, they roam across the room as if searching for answers. He is about to ask her what is on her mind, but she turns to look at him. She tilts her head to the side. Her eyes are half-closed in a way that tells him she is on the verge of figuring something out.

“You’re being hunted,” she realizes aloud, and in her gaze, he can see more pieces sliding into place. “The Imp wants his prize back. And the tracking fobs for the youngling have been activated again.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. “So,” she breathes out, “ _that’s_ why you chose Cholganna to hide in.”

“Well, Cholganna chose me,” he remarks.

It gratifies him when Talia hums at this. Like him, he knows that she is remembering how they met first in space then down here on the planet’s surface.

“And it chose the little womp rat, too,” he adds, nodding at the baby whose eyes are now heavy with sleep.

Talia’s nose wrinkles at the nickname, and she shakes her head. “He needs a name. A _real_ name, Ordo.”

“‘Kid’ suits him just fine, Kex,” he insists.

“Well, I’m not going to call him that. Or womp rat,” she states before giving the child a kind smile. “His name should reflect . . .”

“His face?”

She sends him a knowing look, one that he wants to smirk at.

“I was going to say—I know!” she interrupts herself. She turns to him, her gaze sparkling with excitement. “Vandar,” she declares. “He should be called ‘Vandar.’”

The name makes him frown. “Why?” he blurts out.

“Why not?” she throws back at him before focusing on the child. “What do you think, youngling?” she asks, sliding a finger across the child’s pointy ear. “How would you like to be called ‘Vandar’?”

The bounty hunter cranes his neck to the side, trying to catch the kid’s reaction to the name. Much to his dislike, the little traitor coos at Talia, a smile spreading across his green lips.

“He likes it,” she beams, sending him a triumphant look. “And how about you, Ordo? What do you think of the name?”

“I think,” he slowly says, “I hate it.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, don’t be such a sour face. ‘Vandar’ fits him perfectly.”

“I’m not calling him that,” he stubbornly declares, and he has half a mind to cross his arms in defiance.

“Fine,” she sighs. “You don’t have to. But I will.”

“You’ll confuse him.”

“He’ll learn,” she insists as she collects the dirty dishes. “I think we both know he’s smarter than he looks.”

Having the final word, Talia busies herself with the cutlery and plates. The Mandalorian rolls the name in his head, testing it.

_Vandar._

It is a short name yet not too short. The _V_ sounds sharp, but with Talia’s accent there is a certain friendliness in it. He can almost imagine the kid responding to the name.

_Vandar._

_Maybe I don’t really hate it,_ he inwardly decides. _But there’s no way I’m going to tell_ her _that._


	18. Jungle Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this one done earlier than expected, and I couldn't wait another day to post it. It's a little longer than the others, but I felt it wouldn't be worth splitting in two. I hope you all find this chapter interesting. Enjoy!

Chapter XVIII: Jungle Woes

Around noon, the rain finally stops. He walks down from _Starlight_ ’s loading ramp and looks up at the sky. The sun is peaking through light gray clouds, warming the planet. Beneath his armor, he can feel a layer of sweat dampening his tunic. The moisture from the rain is rising from the grass, smothering any kind of breathable air.

For the past several hours, he has been confined to the Onderonian ship. Talia showed him some of the contents of her cargo boxes, items ranging from weapons—which fascinated him, especially the blasters—to medical supplies. She even gave him access to her cockpit, allowing him to browse the Outer Rim’s vast navigation charts. Despite the astrodroid’s company onboard _Starlight_ , he did not mind being there, except he was feeling impatient to stretch his legs. He was relieved when the rain ceased and the sun broke through the clouds.

He steps onto the open plain, his boots squishing into the soft earth. Behind him, he can hear the child’s box-bed following him. He motions for it to move next to him. When it does, he notices that the child is staring at the small lake. He glances that way himself and sees the water glisten a deep sapphire, its color reminding him of Talia’s royal blue shawl.

“How lovely,” an Onderonian accent floats on the humid air.

With a glance to his left, he finds Talia walking towards him. Her gaze is fixated above, making him search the skies to find what she is looking at. And there, stretched between the clouds is a thin [rainbow](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/614308322639790080/chapter-xviii-jungle-woes-from-my-weapon-my). The arch is bright with its six colors, the lower end of it disappearing beyond the jungle horizon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Talia slinging a large satchel across her shoulders. Her bag, he knows, is stuffed with medical supplies. She still insisted in replenishing his medkit as a way of thanking him for tending to her injury. Like he had told her before, there was no need. But after a while he gave in because he did not see the point in arguing with her. Med supplies have been expensive lately, and if she was willing to give him some—like more Synthflesh—without payment, who is he to refuse?

A whistling noise penetrates his thoughts, joining with the buzzing insects and the jungle rustlings. The bounty hunter rolls his eyes. Talia’s metal pet has followed them.

Straightening his shoulders, he ignores the droid and heads towards the _Crest_. He passes by the fire pit where they had burned the spice. A black mud puddle now fills up the pit, its water stagnant and ankle-deep.

Every step he takes sinks a centimeter into the green field. Now and then his boots squeak when rubbed against the wet blades of grass. Beside him, he can hear Talia’s boots making the same noise. He steals a glance at her. She is craning her neck to their left, apparently studying the jungle’s tree-line. But it is so thick he wonders why she even bothers.

A few yards away from the _Crest_ , the Mandalorian pushes a button on his gauntlet, commanding his ship to open its cargo hatch and lower the ramp. The large door hisses as it slides open, and he steps onto the ramp the moment it reaches the ground. He orders the child’s box-bed to park itself off to the side and to settle onto the metal floor. Behind him, he hears Talia order her droid to stay where it is on the field, and he is thankful she respects him enough to keep that tin-can off his ship.

He picks up Talia’s vibrorapier with her leather belt attached to it. The melee weapon’s hilt, light bronze mixed with dusty silver, gleams in the daylight, and he once again appreciates how well-balanced the rapier feels in his grip. He turns around, finding Talia watching him. With the steel blade pointing down, he hands her the thin sword.

“It’s a fine weapon,” he remarks as she receives her joint possessions. He makes a mental note to give her the male Nexu pelt later on today.

“It is,” she answers, handing him her satchel of medical supplies.

He accepts the exchange and sets the bag atop a nearby cargo box. While doing this, he notices that Talia pulls her rapier from its belt. She steps to the side, and he can hear her swipe the air with her melee weapon. The noise her blade makes, as it cuts through the relatively silent atmosphere of his ship, reminds him of a muffled wind blowing against a flag. He turns so he can have a better view of her, and he sees Talia pointing the rapier in front of her, the blade reaching for the sun’s light.

After a few seconds, she fastens the weapon to her belt. Instead of strapping her leather accessory to her waist, he watches as she merely slings the belt over her shoulder, her rapier dangling in the air.

“It’s a bit old-fashioned,” he comments. When she moves to face him, he nods at the blade.

“To some,” she replies with a half-smile.

“Family weapon?”

She shakes her head. “I had it designed specifically for me. I prefer blades than blasters. Always have. My uncle once said I was a natural.”

“Blasters are faster,” he says, laying a hand on his pistol strapped inside its holster. Still wanting to get a closer look at hers, he adds, “Seems like you might agree with me. That’s an interesting pistol you got there.”

When he nods at her holstered weapon, she looks down at it then back at him. He can see an idea flash in her dark eyes.

“You can see mine,” she offers, “if I can see yours.”

He thinks about it for a second. In one hand, he can count the times when another person has ever handled his blaster pistol. Most people have come to regret that, but Talia is not going to be one of them. He finds himself trusting her, so he pulls out his pistol and extends it to her. He is rewarded when he sees her eyebrows lift up and her eyes widen. He silently congratulates himself for still being able to catch her off guard.

In response, she retrieves her own blaster and hands it to him _before_ accepting his weapon—a sign of trust on her side that he appreciates very much. With Talia’s pistol in his hand, he surrenders his to her.

He studies the blaster, approving of its light weight in his hand. Its grip is black while the majority of the weapon’s body is a silver-gray color. The barrel is not as long as his, and there is a scope about half the length of the pistol itself connected to the top. He notices a round, cylinder theme dominating the blaster’s design. The scope, the barrel, the body—all are curved and smooth. There is something familiar about it, which he cannot place, and he finds himself wanting to know the weapon’s name and if its laser is red like his.

Curious to know more about the pistol, he hands it back to Talia, who then returns his weapon. As he slides it back into his holster, he remarks, “Nice blaster. What’s its model?”

“[DE-10](https://sillyromantic4ever.tumblr.com/post/614308556987138049/chapter-xviii-jungle-woes-from-my-weapon-my),” she answers, also putting her weapon away.

“Range?”

“Sixty-five meters. Max.”

 _That explains the scope_ , he figures. He nods at her, impressed.

“Yours?” she asks in return.

“Fifty meters.”

“Looks like you’ve had it for a while,” she comments, and he shrugs.

“And yours looks new.”

It is her time to shrug, and her blue shawl ripples from where it is hanging around her neck. “A little,” she sighs. “I haven’t used it much.”

“The design reminds me of something,” he says, hoping she would enlighten him as to how she got it.

“Well . . .” she hesitates, “it’s a Death Watch pistol.”

His ears perk up, and his gaze fuses with hers. To say he had not been expecting that is an understatement. He suspected she did not like Death Watch, the group who rescued him all those years ago. He was not able to understand why, but maybe he will.

“Really?” he asks, his voice calm. “How’d you end up with it?”

“A friend of mine. Zaerdra,” she explains. She averts her eyes from his and looks around his ship. “She joined Death Watch some years back. She wanted to go more on the offensive against the Empire. I tried to convince her to stay. Or to join the Rebellion. But,” she releases a heavy sigh, “she didn’t listen to me.”

A soft thud reaches his ears, and also Talia’s. Together, they look off to the side and find the child hobbling down the _Crest_ ’s loading ramp. Wanting to keep an eye on him, the bounty hunter walks over to the mouth of his ship. He considers calling the child back, but he figures any Nexu or even the land octopi might not venture onto the open plain shortly after a storm. Much to his annoyance, the astrodroid whistles at the child and begins trailing after him.

Behind him, he hears Talia making a shuffling noise. She joins him after a few seconds. He sees that she had strapped on her rapier’s belt around her thin waist; however, she had made sure the leather accessory is fastened underneath her light brown tunic. He wonders if the belt—which he remembers sitting high above her waist—is either rubbing against her Bacta patch or is causing friction with her blaster’s belt and holster.

While he watches the child trailing after a Cholgannese frog, he asks her, “What happened? To your friend?”

“She came home,” she reveals, and he detects sadness in her accent. “But she wasn’t the same. She was part of a splinter group from the Watch. They had gone to the Endor System.”

Talia pulls out the DE-10 pistol again. He thinks, seeing her handle it with her small hands, that it looks the right size for her.

“The Watch had been working on a new blaster, right before the Empire fell—that’s how she got this one. It’s one of the few models out there. But Zaerdra,” Talia continues, returning the weapon to its holster. “She didn’t want it anymore. She said it brought her too many bad memories.”

“So, she gave it to you,” he finishes for her. He watches the child hop after the frog, the bottom hem of his little tunic soaking up the raindrops from the grass. The bucket of bolts stops following the child and rolls to the _Crest_ ’s right side, parking its cylinder body in the shade.

“I didn’t want it,” his companion explains. “She said I should have it because she knew that if I ever used it, I’d be using it for the right reasons. But I still didn’t want it. I only took it after . . .”

When she leaves her sentence hanging in the humid air, he already knows what happened to her friend. It was something that does not need explaining.

“After she died,” Talia murmurs. A pinch of bitterness seasons the last word, making him send her a glance. She notices it and says, “Spice. Zaerdra was a user. She took too much, about two years ago.” She chuckles, and there is no mistaking the bitterness coloring it. “She said she was trying to forget. As if spice could help her do that.”

 _And that’s why she hates spice,_ he thinks to himself. He wonders why whoever planted the drug on her ship must have thought it was a good idea. Since Talia’s life as a politician would mean her personal business was everyone else’s, people should have known that she would hate spice since it killed her friend. Accusing Talia of having dealings with the drug was, in his opinion, a weak and unbelievable attempt to soil her character.

Figuring it was time to steer her attention away from _how_ her friend died, he remarks as gently as he can, “You took the blaster to remember her then?”

She nods. “And to honor her. She wanted me to have it. So, I respected her wishes.” A sigh, tired and sad, escapes her. “You know,” she muses aloud, “for the longest time I couldn’t even look at it. I was so angry at the Watch, for luring her away from home.”

“You two were close?” he quietly asks.

She takes in a deep breath. “Our fathers were best friends. And so were we.”

As he steals a glance at her, he again sees sorrow emanating from her eyes. For the second time today, he has to force himself not to squirm at how vulnerable she is. If he is being honest with himself, he is startled that she keeps confiding in him, that she does not hold back in telling him her personal business. But then, she _did_ say that the reason why she left her homeworld was so she could stop hiding her thoughts and emotions, her likes and dislikes. She must feel some relief to finally be herself after who knows how long.

However, _he_ is not used to hearing people’s stories and actually caring. Or, in this case with Talia, feeling sorry for her. Her mother died in the Clone War, her pathetic father abandoned her, her uncle was murdered for having his ward’s gift, and her now her friend—whom he assumes that she had grown up with—had died from an overdose of spice. How many losses has this woman had?

Not sure what to say, he blurts out, “Yeah, I figured you didn’t like Death Watch.” He winces at just how unsympathetic he sounds, but it is too late to take it back.

Turning her head to him, Talia says, “I’m sorry. I know they saved your life. But yes, I don’t like them. They’re too radical.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that she looks straight ahead. He doubts she is really watching the child swallow the frog in one, huge gulp. If she had been, she might have chuckled or scolded the little one—just like he wanted to do if they had not been talking. Even the droid releases a few high-pitched beeps in disapproval.

“My tribe,” he ventures to say, “thinks you Dxun Mandalorians aren’t radical enough.”

She gives playful humph. “Clan Ordo would think that. You guys left because of it all those years ago.”

“We left because we thought your Clans had assimilated _too_ much,” he clarifies. He feels it is important that she gets her facts straight on a piece of his Tribe’s history.

“We survived,” she reasons with him. “Our traditions may have evolved, but the roots are the same.”

He wants to scoff at this, but he stops himself. Instead, he mutters, “Keep on telling yourself that.” He expects her to throw a snarky remark back at him, so when she remains silent, he figures it is time to change the subject—at least a little. “I didn’t take you as the type to carry a blaster,” he comments, trying to sound good-natured. “You any good?”

When he glances at her, he is rewarded by a smirk playing on her dark pink lips. She looks his way and admits, “I’m decent.” 

He practically snorts at this, which makes her cock an eyebrow at him.

“You don’t believe me?”

“When people say that, they’re usually not very good.”

“Then I guess I have to show you.”

Before he can say anything, Talia marches down the loading ramp, her boots thudding on the metal. He trails after her, finding himself curious as to what she has in mind. The baby stops from chasing a butterfly, and his eyes light up when he sees that they have joined him outside. He begins to waddle over to where they are standing.

“See that tree? The one with the vines.”

The Mandalorian has his eyes follow to where she is pointing. Behind the _Crest_ , off the right about one hundred feet away, is a tall tree with wide branches stretching across the jungle’s perimeter. He figures the tree’s height to be about seventy feet or so. Growing around its branches and trunk are thick vines, looping their snake-like bodies all around as if to squeeze the rainwater out of the tree itself. About forty feet up, he notes that there are some vines lazily swaying in the air as they reach for the ground below.

“Yeah, I see it,” he replies.

In response, Talia yanks out her DE-10 pistol before saying, “I’ll sever a vine from here—without using my scope.”

Not waiting for him to comment, she raises the blaster in front of her, her hand not quivering for a second. Before she can even pull the trigger, he finds himself asking, “Wanna make this interesting?”

She tilts her head at him. “You mean a wager?”

“I bet you can’t shoot a piece off in two shots,” he answers, amusement bleeding through his tone. His reward is a slight eye-roll.

“I’m not taking that bet.”

“Don’t think you can do it?” he quips with a smirk.

“No,” she insists, focusing on her target. “I don’t think you have the money.”

He is about to retaliate, but Talia fires two consecutive shots. Her pistol releases blue laser bolts, the color as rich as the sky. He is impressed that she had indeed hit her mark, for a piece of a jungle vine falls to the ground. He hears more than sees Talia holster her pistol.

“Your turn,” she announces quietly.

It is a dare. Or maybe it only sounds like one because of her accent. Yet that thought does not stop him. He pulls out his own blaster, its weight familiar and welcoming. His eyes focus on a vine right next to the one Talia had fired at. He raises his blaster before him, his arm steady. His gloved finger curves around the trigger. Taking a slow breath, he squeezes the trigger once. Then twice.

Satisfaction, along with a sense of pride, fills his chest when he sees his target float to the jungle floor. He holsters his weapon.

“You’re very good,” Talia remarks, and he can hear a smile in her voice.

He shrugs then says, “You, too. You’re better than decent.”

The smile that spreads across her lips is small and almost shy. She turns away and walks past him towards her droid. “I’m going to wander around for a bit,” he hears her casually say, as if she just announced that she is taking a stroll in the royal gardens.

He spins on his heel and faces her. Next to him, the child is waddling towards the edge of the small lake. The bounty hunter feels his eyebrows lift when he sees Talia, along with her metal pet, heading towards the jungle.

“You shouldn’t go in there,” he warns. “You don’t know what kinds of animals you’ll come across.”

“Please,” she chuckles before throwing a half-smile over her shoulder. “I’m an Onderonian. Wild beasts are a part of my culture. And I’ve lived in Dxun’s jungle which, by the way, is crawling with even more animals.”

In an instant, he is marching after her. He does not care if her planet is infested with Krayt dragons and Acklays. He cannot have the person he is indebted to get herself killed before he can repay that debt. So, he quickens his pace. The droid has already disappeared in the jungle, and Talia is almost there. He reaches for her, grabs her upper arm, and is relieved when she turns around.

“You’re still recovering,” he argues.

She tugs at her arm, but his grip tightens. She cocks an eyebrow at him and says, “Would it help if I told you that I took off my Bacta patch hours ago?”

“You what?” he snaps at her. “When?”

“Early this morning,” she reveals, freeing her arm from his grasp. “Right before we burned the spice. I’m completely healed.”

“Fine,” he mutters before quickly adding, “Then I’m coming with you.”

He pushes aside the twist in his gut telling him that he needs to think about this, that he should not be acting so recklessly. He had spent a lot of time and resources—including tons of patience—to make sure the stubborn Onderonian woman is healthy. There is no way in Unknown Space that he is going to just stand here and watch her get swallowed up by a Nexu-infested jungle.

“I need some time alone,” she tells him.

“With the droid?” he deadpans.

“He’s my friend.”

“He can’t have your back,” he argues, glaring at her.

“His sensors will alert me if anything bigger than a bark rat gets too close. Besides,” she adds, nodding at something behind him, “I’m not the one who needs a babysitter right now.”

 _The kid,_ his brain reminds him.

He looks over his shoulder, spotting the green baby chasing another frog. The amphibian leaps into the small lake, and the baby looks as if he is going to follow it. Before he knows it, the bounty hunter is jogging towards the baby, his first—and should be only—priority.

Thankfully, his boots stomping into the wet grass catches the kid’s attention. His pointy ears twitch, which makes him turn around. He smiles when he sees his guardian, and the Mandalorian scoops up the kid. A scold is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. Instead, he spins around, facing the jungle perimeter again, hoping that Talia had the sense to stay put.

As his mind registers what his eyes are telling him, that she had already slipped into the jungle’s depths while he was thoroughly distracted, he feels a surge of frustration and annoyance rain down on him—two attitudes related to Talia that he is all too familiar with.

“Well,” he grits out, looking at the child in his arms, “let’s see how long she lasts out there, huh kid? Because _we’re_ not going after her.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Later on that day . . ._

It has been five and a half hours since she disappeared. And yes, he has hated himself for keeping track. He is staring at the tree-line, right where Talia had walked away from the kid.

And him.

The whole day, he had been restless. He checked the perimeter, tinkered on his ship, and had done some target practice with a stone the kid had lifted in the air with his mind. He even used the _Crest_ ’s scanners to see if they could locate Talia and her droid. However, his ship does not have a wide range on land, so he had come up empty.

About an hour ago, he scrounged a meal together for him and the child—and he purposefully did not save any for the Onderonian. He stashed his food stores away, not caring if he was making unnecessary noises. But when he noticed that the child was asleep, he forced himself to be quieter. It hit him that perhaps his little ward was going through a growing spurt because his naps have lasted longer these past couple of days.

With this thought in mind, the Mandalorian switches on his helmet’s infrared vision. Immediately, countless of heat signatures pepper across the jungle’s tree-line. Glowing like flames, the figures shimmer with movement. But he cannot find even one that resembles a petite humanoid with the approximate height of five feet and four inches.

Frustrated, he turns off the infrared and glares at the rainforest taunting at him, buzzing at him to enter into its humid depths. The temptation to go look for Talia himself is starting to become too hard to resist. But he has not given in—all because of the child. What should he do with him? Leave the baby locked up in the _Crest_ or bring him along? Either option makes him feel as if he would be a terrible guardian, so he decides to stay put.

 _For now,_ he begrudgingly thinks.

He heads back to his ship, his boots dragging across the luscious field. A snap from the jungle pierces the air, and he spins around. His hand rests on his holstered pistol, but there, walking towards him, is Talia with her astrodroid in tow. The bounty hunter swallows the sigh of relief building up this throat; instead, he releases a huff of annoyance. It was stupid of her to traverse a jungle full of Nexu and who knows what else.

Talia’s royal blue shawl is wrapped around her neck then hangs over her shoulder like a thick scarf. As a greeting, she sends him a nod, but he does not return it. He is too busy surveying her with a critical eye, checking her for visible injuries or scratches. Her long braid is draped over her shoulder, and though it appears to be a little undone, with flyaway hairs rubbing against the sides of her face, she appears normal. Not even her clothes look like they have been splattered with mud or tainted with grass stains.

Once she is within good hearing range, he snaps out, “What took you so long? You said you’d only be gone for a little bit. It’s been _six_ hours,” he nearly hisses. He knows he is over-exaggerating, which is something he does not do very often; but Talia does not need to know that.

“And here I thought,” she chuckles, “you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” he grits out. “I just expected you to keep your word.”

She stops a few feet in front of him, her bucket of bolts releasing a quiet beep. Tilting her head at him, her gaze takes in his tense shoulders and erect stance. A half-smile ghosts across the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she replies. “I didn’t think I’d be gone for so long.”

“So, what in the name of Concordia,” he tersely asks, “could have been so interesting in that stank jungle?”

“I got distracted, okay?” She shrugs her shoulders, as if that flimsy excuse could roll away like water beading down a duck’s greasy back. “This place reminds me of Dxun. And of happier times with my family.”

He crosses his arms, not impressed and most especially not feeling any kind of sympathy for her. Not like earlier.

“You see,” she explains, “after the Clans heard my father tell me that I dishonored him, they haven’t let me set foot on Dxun since. They thought me going there again would bring _them_ dishonor. All this—” She waves a hand at the jungle behind her. “—was one of the reasons why I chose to hide on Cholganna in the first place.”

Still not buying the sentimental story she was selling, he looks down at her, hoping he seems intimidating enough for her to come clean. Talia has not struck him as someone who can easily allow her mind to wander for so long, so he decides to press her for the truth.

“What have you been up to, really?”

At this, the tin-can spurts out a whistle. Talia lays a gentle hand on the droid, to silence it. “Nothing cynical,” she retorts. “If that’s what you mean.”

He glares at her, not caring if she cannot see it. With his arms still crossed, he feels his hands tighten into fists, but he keeps them hidden from her view. She is being as evasive as the first day they met. And here he thought they had gotten past this!

Annoyed, he turns his back to her and marches for the _Crest_. He cannot understand why he had been so worried about her—and _that_ makes him angry. Since when did she become a reliable ally to him? Somehow, he had allowed her to wedge herself in between the vulnerable sections of his armor.

What was the matter with him? He should not have been so concerned for her safety. But what is this strange feeling that stirs within his chest whenever he looks at the woman? A woman that he still does not know much about?

 _This is her fault,_ he decides. That can be the only explanation as to why he has been confused and anxious since their paths crossed. _I was fine before that. So was the kid,_ he reasons as he nears the _Crest_ ’s cargo door.

“You know what?” he throws over his shoulder while stalking up the loading ramp. He is proud his voice is flat and sounds disinterested. “I don’t want to know. Just forget I asked.”

“Oh, really?” he hears her challenge him. “You could’ve fooled me.”

When he reaches the top of the ramp, he turns around. Talia is standing at the bottom, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Parked next to her is the R6 unit, swiveling its head left then right.

“You shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” he bluntly tells her. “And not with that trash compactor.”

The droid titters on its legs and releases a high-pitched whistle, obviously offended. The bounty hunter has the sudden desire to throw the wasted piece of technology in the lake.

“Yes,” Talia answers her droid. “He _is_ being difficult.” She sends him a glare, to which he crosses his arms. “And he’s forgotten that he can’t tell me what to do.”

Irritation mixed with disdain surges through his veins. It only doubles when the bucket of bolts spurts out a loud reply. Talia refuses to be honest with him, but she is more than open with her droid—a thought that smacks the Mandalorian right at the back of his head.

“Send the droid away,” he warns her, his voice dangerous. “Unless you want him to be my next target.” To emphasize how serious he is, he lays a gloved hand on his blaster.

From where he is, he sees Talia’s brown eyes harden. She crosses her arms in defiance and says, “You wouldn’t dare, Ordo. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

“Don’t push me, _Kex_.”

They stare at each other, and her metal pet has the sense to stay quiet. But after half a minute, Talia releases an exasperated sigh. Uncrossing her arms, she glances at her beloved side-kick. “I think another storm’s coming, R6. Why don’t you go back to the ship and check the scanners?”

The cylinder-shaped droid beeps what sounds like an affirmation before rolling away towards _Starlight_.

Seeing this should make the bounty hunter feel better, but it does the opposite. Talia’s response has irked him even more. She did not send her droid away because _he_ wanted her to. No, she did it as if it was _her_ idea all along, and he had nothing to do with it—which reminds him of this morning. Hours ago, after he had told her of his bad experiences with droids, she ordered her metal companion out of the cargo hold—for him. She had been thoughtful, kind, understanding. How could things have gotten so bumpy for them so soon?

 _And now, she’s being slippery, stubborn,_ he mentally lists off. _Maddening. Impractical. And she could’ve at least used a better excuse. I doubt it’ll rain again, much less a storm come through._

“How’s the youngling?” Talia asks, breaking through his thoughts.

For some reason, his infuriation towards her grows another foot. He knows she purposefully did not use the name that she christened the baby with. It is an attempt to placate him since she is all too aware of the fact that he does not like the name ‘Vandar.’ In his current state of mind, he would have bristled at hearing it, a realization that makes his left hand curl into a tight fist because . . . she had figured him out.

Giving into his own Mandalorian stubbornness, he coldly answers, “Seems you didn’t care much about him today. Being gone for so long.”

“Of course I care,” she scolds him. “And I’ve told you why. Or is it hard to hear underneath that thick helmet?”

His patience snaps. He has had enough wise-cracks about his helmet. And it is long past overdue for her to receive her own medicine.

“Sometimes I wonder if you listen with an accent,” he throws at her. “You would’ve kept away from the jungle if you heard me right.”

“I’m more than capable of protecting myself. See?” She dramatically raises her arms and even spins around for him. “Not a scratch on me.”

“So, walking into unknown territory is your way of proving yourself?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “No wonder you need Mandalorian mercenaries as palace guards. I wouldn’t be surprised if you Onderonians are getting killed off from making stupid mistakes.”

“That’s rich for a bounty hunter. Your job is to risk your life for a stranger all so you can get a pay-day that never lasts more than a day. Are you even the best person to protect Vandar?”

“Better than you. At least I didn’t get shredded by a Nexu.”

“I saved your life!” She marches halfway up the ramp, probably tired of craning her neck to look at him.

“You were foolish,” he insists, his voice as dispassionate as ever. “And reckless. You say you want to help protect the kid, Talia. But I think you’re more of a liability than an asset.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she bitterly laughs out. “A bounty hunter indebted to a ‘liability’ for saving his ungrateful Bantha backside. You sure you’re _Vandar’s_ protector? Seems to me his gift has been keeping _you_ safe.”

“Watch it, Kex,” he growls. “You’re pushing it.”

After releasing a sigh, the Onderonian shakes her head, and he thinks he is winning their verbal spar. She focuses on him again, her expression calm and collected. “Okay,” she breathes. “I think we both need to cool down.”

He blinks, surprised she is retreating from their argument. Not that he is complaining. A break from her and her difficult, mysterious attitude is a relief. So, he does not say anything when she turns on her heel and descends the loading ramp. He watches her take five steps on the field before suddenly spinning around. His arms drop to his sides as she marches back up the ramp again.

“Look,” she says before he can open his mouth. “You saved Vandar’s life, but now you don’t know what to do with him. Let me be his guardian,” she asks more than orders. “And then you can go off and do whatever bounty hunters do. You’ll be free again.”

“And you’ll have the kid,” he adds, not missing a beat. “Which is what you’ve always wanted.” He obstinately crosses his arms again. “No way. I don’t trust you _that_ much.”

 _And you shouldn’t be trusting her in the first place,_ his brain reprimands him.

Talia presses her lips together, and he can see a frown on the verge of forming across her mouth. She drops her gaze. He hears more than sees her take in a deep breath.

“Well, then,” she murmurs. “I guess there’s only one way to settle this. And you’ve left me with little choice.”

Not sure what she means, he tilts his head to the side and waits. When Talia raises her eyes, fusing them with his, he can see regret and reluctance hidden in her gaze. She broadens her shoulders, and her back is erect. He witnesses her put on her politician mask, which alerts him to brace himself for what she will say next.

“ _Verd_ *,” she formally addresses him, surprising him. “According to one of our oldest traditions, I hereby challenge you to a Mandalorian Fighting Circle.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: vaird; translation: “warrior”)_

* * *

Talia's DE-10 blaster pistol:


	19. Tribe Ordo v. Clan Kex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have been waiting for this chapter! I know I have; I've been planning this for a while now. I admit that I was exhausted after I wrote it because writing fight/action scenes is quite a challenge for me. I'm not a combat expert, nor am I proficient in writing it. However, I did not want to be Tolkien (battle description: "And they slew many.") and say, "Then the bounty hunter and Talia fought." I have done my best to write a few rounds of their Mandalorian duel, and I hope I am successful in making this chapter exciting. After all, I thinks it's time to have some action--even if the fighting is not expertly choreographed. Enjoy!

Chapter XIX: Tribe Ordo v. Clan Kex

“What?” he says, not caring if surprise bleeds through his voice. After all, he had just been thrown the gauntlet—and by Talia of all people. His previous annoyance towards her diffuses like a hurricane, and it is quickly replaced by disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

Standing a couple of feet away from him, the Onderonian woman nods. “I assure you,” she states. “I am.”

He looks at her evenly and tries to find a crack in her neutral mask. But when he realizes that she has no intention of retracting her challenge, he double-checks. “You want to fight me, for the kid?”

“Believe me,” she half-chuckles, and he would be an idiot if he thought he heard any hint of humor in it. “I don’t _want_ to. I just feel I’ve been given little choice.”

“And you think you can actually beat me?” He crosses his arms, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. He is not one to boast of his feats, but he has been paid top-credits for his work. People have wanted only the best hunters to get a job done, and for years he has striven to be one of the best.

At this, Talia cocks an eyebrow at him. An amused smile ghosts across her lips as she remarks, “Your confidence now makes me want to. Very much.”

“I fight for a living,” he bluntly tells her. “You do remember that, right?”

“So, you think politics has made me rusty?” she asks, her accent refined as always. “Well, you seem to believe that my dainty little hands have been idle since the Clone War.”

“I didn’t say that,” he argues.

“But you were thinking it.”

“I wouldn’t have put it like that,” he claims. There is small part of him that is relieved they are delving into some comradery, but he pushes it aside. “I figured,” he slowly admits, “you’re handy with your rapier.”

“So, do you accept my challenge?”

 _She’s still insisting on that, isn’t she?_ he muses to himself.

“I’ll humor you,” he says instead, curiosity painting his gravelly voice. “What are the terms?”

“If I win—”

He scoffs before he can stop himself. But this earns him a pointed looked from Talia, who is obviously not finding the idea as humorous as he is.

“As I was saying,” she continues. “If I win, I become Vandar’s guardian.”

 _Which isn’t going to happen,_ he silently tells her.

“And if you lose?” he prompts.

“Naturally, you can keep him. And I will clear you of your debt to me. So,” she sighs, her dark eyes sweeping across his Beskar helmet. “What say you?”

What should he say? The question makes him want to scoff again. ‘No.’ He should say ‘no.’ This challenge is unnecessary and nigh on ridiculous. Why is he even wasting his time humoring her? It does not matter if his muscles tense up with anticipation, ready for some long, overdue action. He needs to walk away from this challenge and be realistic here.

But the possibility of being free of his debt lingers in his mind. The idea is too good to be true. Normally, he would not trust such a simple offer because there would always be some kind of catch—which would probably not benefit him in the least. Yet . . . this deal is coming from a member of his Creed, someone who respects and understands how significant the results of a Mandalorian challenge is within their warrior culture. Though Talia is acting sly and obstinate at the moment, she _has_ proven to be more than honorable, towards him and most especially towards the child. His gut tells him that she will not have any strings attached to her terms that may bring him harm.

So, accepting the challenge is starting to look appealing. Besides, defeating Talia in combat and proving with his exceptional skills that he is the best guardian for the kid—even if it is in the Fighting Circle—will be most amusing for him. He just may decide to gloat about his victory afterwards.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he says, “Deal.”

“Excellent,” she replies, and he notices that she does not seem excited about his agreement. There is no sparkle in her gaze, only resolve. “Since you are the one being challenged,” she continues, “you have the privilege of choosing blades or no weapons at all.”

In a few seconds, he surveys the woman in front of him and gathers together what he knows about her. Earlier, she had admitted to preferring swords over blasters, and she mentioned something about her gifted uncle telling her that she was a natural. Something tells him that Talia is quite proficient in sword-fighting while he has not studied that skill since he was a kid. Sure, he can enter into a skirmish with a blade in his hand, but that weapon would not be his first choice.

His brain switches to the option of hand-to-hand combat. From what he has figured, Talia has not shown any signs of being well-trained for a bareknuckle fight. Meanwhile, _he_ has had his fair share of cantina brawls, and there have been times when his quick reflexes and strategic punches have subdued a quarry. However, if he is being honest with himself, he still prefers wielding his blasters and utilizing his own gadgets. Not being a legendary expert in hand-to-hand alone, he thinks he should not choose this option either. Perhaps a mixture of blades and fists is the best course for him to take—just so he can emerge as the victor.

“Vibrodaggers,” he tells her.

Talia chuckles, as if his choice reminds her of a fond memory. “Of course,” she says. “No Mandalorian likes to be parted from a weapon. It’s part of our—”

“Religion,” he interrupts, thinking of what he told Kuiil back on Arvala-7.

When the Ugnaught was trying to negotiate with those thieving Jawas, he relayed that the Jawas wanted him to lower his blaster. _“I’m a Mandalorian,”_ he had bluntly told Kuiil. _“Weapons are a part of my religion.”_

A short yet hearty laugh from Talia pulls him back to the present. “Well, I was going to say ‘culture,’” she admits. “But I like the way you put it much better. I’ll have to remember that for later. But,” she clears her throat, removing any humor from her accent. “Are you sure?”

“Why?”

“Well, with knives, it’ll be hard _not_ to cut each other. And I,” she quietly says as she drops her gaze. “I don’t want to injure you too seriously.”

Her words strike a chord within him. How is it that she issues a challenge—which can be brutal, depending on the opponents and the terms—but does not want to inflict a wound upon him? It is too contradictory. Yet what makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up is realizing that _he_ does not want to be responsible for severely injuring her either.

“Fine,” he agrees, proud of his flat tone. “Then let’s go old school. Hand-to-hand.” He may as well take the risk. Anyways, he has more confidence fighting with nothing rather than wielding a sword.

“As you wish,” she approves with a diplomatic smile. “I assume the Circle’s main rule still applies, that whoever steps out of the Circle or is forced out automatically loses the challenge.”

“Agreed.”

“And dirty fighting?”

“Use as a last resort,” he replies. He imagines biting, hair-pulling, kicks in sensitive areas, dirt thrown into the eyes, and other dishonorable guiles. The idea of fighting like that with her makes him frown.

“Let’s try to keep this challenge clean,” Talia offers. “I would like for us to walk away from it with our dignity still intact.”

“Agreed,” he repeats. “Anything else?”

“Yes. How do you want either of us to win?” Her dark eyes roam across his helmet before focusing on his visor. “Whoever draws blood from their opponent first? Or whoever yields first?”

 _Well,_ he thinks to himself, _at least she doesn’t want this to be a death-match. I guess I should be grateful._

To him, death-matches are a complete waste of life. A person should not squander his life for a mere duel. If Talia had said their challenge would result in one of their deaths, he would have pulled out of this fight immediately. Besides, killing her just so he can earn his freedom from his debt does not feel honorable to him. And . . . a little part of him whispers that he does not think he can bring himself to actually kill her. She may be an evasive politician with hidden goals, but he does not think she has done anything worthy of death. Her kindness and warmth to both the kid and himself are admirable. But he silences that tiny voice inside him—he cannot afford to feel emotionally compromised where Talia is concerned.

But a blood-match? The idea of purposely draining her of even one drop of her half-Mandalorian blood makes his gut twist. He reasons that he had used medical resources, time, and energy so she could be healthy and injury-free. His efforts will be in vain if he agrees to the first-to-draw-blood rule.

_I guess there’s only one way to win._

“Whoever yields first,” he tells her.

“Agreed.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Mid-morning of the next day . . ._

The sun is hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, making the shadows of the jungle’s perimeter seem longer and darker. He has not heard any thunder, but something tells him that it will rain within the next few hours.

 _Talia was right,_ he thinks to himself, remembering how she sent her droid to check the scanners yesterday. _She predicted a storm._

He glances at the Onderonian woman currently entertaining his thoughts. She is busy preparing their Fighting Circle.

At the moment, he is standing about twenty yards away from his ship. The jungle’s tree-line is at his right side while the small lake is at his left. In front of him, he can see both the _Crest_ and _Starlight_ parked like safe havens. Inside each of the ships are his and Talia’s respective companions. While the child is taking a nap, the astromech droid is more than likely plugged into the Onderonian ship’s computer systems. The bounty hunter is relieved both will not be present to witness the challenge. The tin-can would probably whistle and beep, distracting him to no end; and the child might get in the way.

 _Or frown at this,_ he muses to himself. Without thinking, he turns slowly to his left. The grass beneath his boots is thin, transitioning into dirt.

Keeping his feet in the general same place, he continues to rotate his body in a tight circle. His right gauntlet, the one with the cable, is settled across his abdomen. The cable itself has been released, stretching less than ten feet away from him—maybe eight, by his estimation. On the other end of the cable is Talia. She had wrapped the hook at the end of his cable around the hilt of her vibrorapier, and the hold she has on the cable is tight. He is the center of their up-coming Fighting Circle while she is drawing the perimeter. Moments ago, she had activated her rapier and is now using its sharp blade to cut into the dirt covered with patches of wispy grass. He admires how innovative she is in making a perfect circle; however, the reason _why_ she is doing this dulls his approval.

The more he thinks about it, the more he finds this challenge to be ridiculous. It had sprung up from a nonsensical argument, and if he is honest, he had been—and is still being—petty as he holds onto his anger and annoyance towards her. Yes, Talia had wandered into the jungle without listening to him and stayed there longer than she said she would. And yes, her excuses as to why she was gone for so long had seemed pathetic and weak to him. But instead of letting it go, he pressed her, and soon they started throwing insults, knowing just enough about one another to exploit each other’s vulnerable points. And somehow their silly argument led them here: to a Mandalorian Fighting Circle.

 _Why does she have to be so difficult?_ he thinks, still turning to his left at a Hutt’s lazy pace.

 _Why do you?_ an authoritative voice in his head asks. The voice reminds him of his adoptive mother, and he can all too easily imagine her crossing her arms and shaking her head at him.

Pushing the voice into a mental compartment, he allows himself to study Talia and assess her. Her figure is petite and thin, yet he knows, from carrying her unconscious body to the _Crest_ , that she has some muscle tone—probably from training. She stands at about five feet and four inches, which means he towers over her. Having nearly seven inches of height advantage and having a heavier build than her, he figures he can win this challenge by using brute strength alone. But then, she _is_ clever; she might be expecting him to take this approach and could use his size and weight against him. He may have to shake up his tactics.

However, for some reason he cannot explain, it feels wrong to now look at her as an opponent, one that he has to beat in a challenge. Three days have passed since he met her, and a bond that he does not fully understand has formed between them. Maybe that is why their argument, the insults, and the thought of fighting her do not sit well in his stomach. Both of them had shared some things from their pasts, and he had found a kinship with her. But he was unwise to have exposed pieces of himself. He should have been more careful, for the ally he had made yesterday had become an “enemy” today. And he finds himself wrestling with the idea of putting an end to this challenge before it starts.

With this kind of thinking, his Mandalorian pride kicks in and scolds him for even considering that option. People from his Creed do _not_ back down from challenges. They firmly believe that there is glory in battles, both big and small. Plus, if he wants to be free of his debt to Talia—which he would like very much—and if he wants to settle that _he_ is the better guardian for the child, then he _must_ win. The only way for this challenge to be dismissed is if Talia retracts it. And judging from how stubborn she is, he highly doubts she will do that. Yet . . . she has also proven to be more Onderonian than Mandalorian. If he offers her a chance to walk away, perhaps the dominant, Onderonian side of her will compel her to withdraw.

He looks around him and sees that Talia has drawn half of the Circle so far. As he watches her carefully construct the perimeter with her rapier, he reminds himself that he has never seen her fight before—and the Nexu fight does not count. At the time, he had been too focused on taking down the beast in front of him that he did not really see Talia fight hers. At least, not enough that he can use as study material. She is an unknown factor, and he is entering into this challenge blind. But he takes a small comfort in knowing that she has never seen _him_ fight before either. They are on even grounds, and when they begin the challenge, he will have to figure out her fighting style quickly.

Eying his ally-turned-opponent, he surveys her from her brown leather, knee-high boots to her hand-covers and up to her blue shawl with gold embroidery. Talia had appeared this morning still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and she was also carrying her weapons: her vibrorapier and DE-10 pistol.

The only difference in her appearance is the arrangement of her royal blue shawl. She did not drape it around her shoulders or hang the expensive material around her neck like a scarf. Instead, she had it cover her head like a hood and had the extra fabric hang over her shoulders, which kept it out of her way. Ever since they relocated away from their ships, her hood has cast her face in shadow, shading her dark eyes and obscuring his view.

Once Talia finishes making the Circle’s perimeter, he watches her untangle the end of his cable from around the hilt of her rapier. He then presses a button on his gauntlet, commanding his cable to retract.

Seizing this calm moment, he asks, “So . . . you’re still serious about doing this, huh?”

“Having seconds thoughts?” she throws at him, almost playfully.

In an even tone, he says, “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page. That’s all.”

Talia switches off her rapier and walks a couple of feet away from the Circle. With her back to him, he watches her plant her rapier’s thin blade deep into the grass. The hilt shines in the late morning light.

“You may want to lose your belts,” she off-handedly says to him.

He blinks. “You think I’ll be tempted to use my blaster?”

She glances over her shoulder, but her hood prevents him from seeing her eyes. Her mouth maintains a neutral line when she answers. “No. But I may use your belt against you. Even your cloak.”

Understanding her point, he exits the Circle while unfastening his belts. It feels strange to remove them, including the one strapped across his chest; but he does not want for either of them to become a hinderance.

After setting his accessories onto the dirty ground, he also discards his gray cloak. He turns to the Circle again. Talia had moved to stand behind her buried rapier and is now facing him. He studies her graceful movements as she also removes her two belts, plopping them both onto the thin grass.

A soft wind blows through the trees and even ripples through her loose tunic. While he is covered with his thick Beskar armor, her only form of protection are her clothes made of easily penetrable material.

“Almost doesn’t seem fair,” he comments. When she turns her head to him, he clarifies. “I’m wearing armor. You’re not.”

He can see a half-smile on her lips, and her shoulders shrug. “I could’ve taken out my own armor if I wanted to,” she remarks, using her hands to pull back her hood, finally revealing her face. “That is, if I thought I would need it.”

 _She owns armor?_ he thinks, glad that his helmet is covering his expression, or else she would see his mouth hang open. _Why didn’t she show me?_

When he had waited onboard _Starlight_ yesterday for the rain to stop, Talia had allowed him to see some of the contents in her cargo hold. Weapons, medical supplies, food stores—she had showed him hours’ worth of stuff. Why did she not pull out her armor? A Mandalorian’s armor, forged in Beskar, is the pride and glory of their culture. Why hide it away? Why not use it in a Mandalorian challenge?

 _Yeah, she’s definitely more Onderonian,_ he decides. But her stubbornness may be stronger than the roots of her mother. _And her pride in her combat skills,_ he figures. She _chose_ not to wear her armor, a factor that makes him uncertain as whether to see her decision as confidence or foolishness.

Talia unwraps her shawl from around her shoulders and drops it to the ground, covering her belts like a deep waterfall. When she looks at him, he notices dark circles underneath her eyes.

 _Looks like someone had trouble sleeping last night,_ he muses. _Maybe she’s been having some second thoughts._

“One last chance to withdraw,” he flatly offers.

“No. I’m committed to this,” she breathes, shaking her head. “We’ll start the moment we step into the Circle.”

_Well, I warned her. Twice._

“Very well,” he says. “This is the way.”

She gives him a short nod before stating, “I am ready.”

Hearing her Clan’s words sends a trail of goosebumps down his arms. Then, as one, they both enter the Circle.

Automatically, the atmosphere between them thickens with tension. He notes that Talia’s jaw is set, her dark eyes sweeping over him with precision. She slowly moves to her right, and so does he. As he raises his arms in front of him, keeping them in an attack position, he watches Talia do the same. They circumnavigate the inside perimeter of their barrier like caged Rancors, anticipating the moment when their opponent will strike.

After every other step, he realizes that Talia is closing the gap between them. Continuing to pace in a circle, she subtly draws nearer to him. He is still hugging the perimeter, and since he wants some distance between him and the line, he also decides to steer himself towards the middle. In a few moments, he realizes they have finished their first rotation of the Circle, and they are now about an arm-and-a-half away from one another. That is when Talia, as reckless as he had earlier assessed, makes the first move.

Like lightening, she closes the distance between them. She leaps a few inches off the ground, and when gravity pulls her down, she jams her left elbow into his right bicep. His muscles tense on impact, and he unconsciously feels his body bend forward. Now close to her, he retaliates.

With his left hand clenched into a fist, he aims for her abdomen, which is exposed and vulnerable. But mere millimeters before he can deliver the blow, Talia’s right hand grabs his wrist and uses the force behind his punch to misdirect his objective. He feels her strength, combined with his, guide his hand and even his entire arm to his right, making his body also turn in that direction. Not wanting his left side—and the gap between his armor—to be exposed, he fights her momentum and grip by jamming his left elbow in the opposite direction, straight into her shoulder. She grunts on impact and releases her hold on him, taking half a step back.

Quickly, his right hand curls into a fist, and he aims for her jaw, but Talia blocks his punch with her forearms, both crossed in an “X”. She then shoves her arms forward, pushing him back and, thus, breaking them apart.

As he retreats two steps, he feels his upper right arm throb. Talia’s elbow had been precise and unforgiving as it slammed into the non-armored section on his arm. Unlike many of his previous opponents, she had aimed not only for a vulnerable area, but she had also attempted to weaken his dominant arm. He resists the urge to rub his throbbing bicep while they again pace around one another. In the back of his mind, he admires Talia for not massaging where he had jammed his own elbow into her shoulder.

His pulse is beating faster, and he feels a small rush of adrenaline pumping in his veins. Talia, he notices, does not even seem to be affected by their first round. Like him, her arms are up, ready for the next attack. Her eyes dart from one area of his armor to the other, and he cannot tell where she will strike next.

He figures he can pull her to the ground when they meet in the middle of the Circle again. Pinning her down should not be too difficult, and once he uses his weight to incapacitate her, he is certain she will yield. Perhaps he should have done that in their first round, but he had used that short fight to get the feel of Talia’s combat style—and he knows she was doing the same with him. He notes that she is the type to exploit her opponent’s weak spots. She has sharper reflexes than he anticipated, and she is fast in her movements. _Very_ fast. He figured she would be, but he did not expect her to be as swift as a Nexu.

Suddenly, Talia angles her body so she can deliver a kick to his chest. Rather than block it, he decides to take a step backwards to avoid it entirely. His shoulders slightly hunch together as she shuffles closer.

Wanting to prove that her earlier attack did not bother his dominant arm, he uses it to throw the first punch. He aims for her stomach, which she blocks by stepping a centimeter to the side and by grabbing his wrist. She begins to angle his arm inward, which makes his bicep throb even harder, so he yanks out of her grip, turns his body to the side, and then slams his left shoulder into her petite body. He sees his shoulder-cover crash into the area between her neck and right shoulder, and he is surprised not to hear her collar-bone snap upon impact.

He can feel the power behind his move force Talia’s body to arch back, and just when he is about to kick her feet from under her, she grabs onto the top edge of his breastplate, her fingers digging so deep into his tunic that he can feel her nails scraping into his skin. Then, she harshly tugs his armor towards her and allows his weight to pull them both down. In seconds, he is falling to the ground and is about to land on top of Talia until she grabs his chest plate with both hands then pushes him, along with her legs, over her.

With a thud, he lands on his back, but he scrambles to his feet with arms raised and ready for her next attack. As he checks his footing, he notes that Talia had pushed him about a foot-and-a-half away from the Circle’s boundary.

While he relocates to the middle of their small arena, he finds Talia crouching on the ground with one knee digging into the dirt. Her long braid hangs over her shoulder like black rope, and he hears more than sees her breathing through her nose. She lifts up her gaze, the shadows from the trees making the dark circles under her eyes look even darker. Much to his surprise, she sends him a tiny smirk before rising to her feet.

“Something funny?” he quips, trying to sound unamused.

“Not really,” she says as she begins to walk towards him like a woman on a mission. “I just think it’s time to stop dancing around each other.”

He opens his mouth to reply when Talia throws a punch at his right arm, again. She is so fast he does not have time to block her. Her fist slams into his bicep, and he forces himself to push aside the powerful throbs rippling up his arm.

Ignoring his aching limb, he uses it to reach for Talia’s right wrist. Once his gloved hand tightly grips it, he spins her and presses her back to his front. Quickly, he wraps his arm around her and moves it to trap her neck in the crook of his elbow while still gripping her wrist. She squirms in his hold and jams her free elbow into his left side exactly where his armor ends. He tries to snatch her arm except she elbows him again with even greater force. Her sharp elbow digs into his vulnerable side, mercilessly rubbing against his ribs.

With a grunt, he tightens the crook of his elbow where he has her neck trapped, and he seizes her free arm with his left hand and pulls it over her head. Both gasping for breath, Talia twists her shoulders in an attempt to break free, so he squeezes his hold on her, forcing her closer to his breastplate. Even with his armor as a barrier between them, he can feel just how soft and curvy her body is.

Before he can even decide his next move, he suddenly feels a hand worming its way to his neck. He tries to pull back Talia’s arm, but her thin fingers manage to peel back his tunic’s material, and her sharp nails dig into his skin.

Adrenaline surges through him—and clarity. He _cannot_ allow her to get any kind of grip on his neck, so he yanks her arm down. But then his right foot is stomped by Talia, which makes him hiss. His right leg unconsciously bends forward, and she kicks his calf muscle, forcing them both to tumble to the ground.

He lands on his back, and she slumps on top of him. His grip on her loosens, giving her enough room to somehow duck underneath his right arm and remove her neck from the crook of his elbow.

Knowing that he cannot let her wiggle free, he tightens his hold on her left arm in a death-grip. He grabs her waist with his free hand and flips her over him, forcing her to land on her stomach. He rolls on the ground and is about to trap her beneath him when she elbows him in his right bicep, for the third time. He is slightly thrown back by this move, and she does it again, causing him to release her left arm. His bicep radiates with pain, and he hisses out a curse.

With his goal of pinning her to the ground coming to a sudden stop, Talia then rolls to their right, gets to her knees, and—instead of fleeing to the other side of the Circle—uses her hand to “chop” the soft spot between his neck and shoulder-cover. In response, his fist rams into her stomach once, then twice. She grunts in pain and stumbles back a step.

Using this as a short reprieve, he forces himself off ground and is in the process of rising his feet when she suddenly slams her body into him. He reaches for her and manages to take her with him again, but while he is falling to the dirt, she slips from his gloved fingers. When his back hits the ground, he hears her land next to his feet before scrambling away from him.

Her ragged breaths are in tune with his, and he plants his hands on the ground so he can use them to push himself up. It is then that he notices that his pinky finger is only two inches away from the line. If Talia had shoved him harder, she would have pushed him out of the Circle entirely.

 _Which has been her goal this whole time,_ he suddenly realizes.

In a flash, he quickly springs to his feet. His jaw clenches, and his hands tighten into fists. He knows she will not be able to withstand his strength and weight. So, the best plan of action for him is to wrestle her to the ground and force her to yield.

_Yeah, it’s time to end this._

As Talia rises to her feet, he notices her tunic is sullied with dirt and grass stains. Her eyes are closed as she regulates her breathing.

Choosing that moment to go on the offensive, his boots dig into the ground and steer him forward, straight for Talia. In half a second, her eyes flash open, and she takes a defensive stance, waiting for him.

With his right arm, he feigns a punch aiming for her jaw. She dodges the attack by veering herself to the right—just as he expected. His other hand, clenched into a fist, greets her lower abdomen as she shifts to the side. She bends forward on impact, grunting. He is about to initiate a second blow when her right hand meets his fist. Her fingers cover his, and he can feel power fueling her hold in him as she pushes his clenched hand away.

He is about to break free of her so he can grab her waist and pull her to the ground when the humming of an engine reaches his ears. Talia freezes a moment before he does, and together, they survey their surroundings.

His eyes scan the open field where he has parked their ships. The jungle surrounds everything around them, from the grassland to the small lake. From his patrolling these past few days, he knows that there is no break in the tropical forest, no clearing or pathway. The humid jungle stretches as far as the eye can see except for this grassy field.

Automatically, he glances up and searches the sky. Clouds have covered up the sun, keeping the moist air trapped between them and the ground.

“Where’s it coming from?” he mutters more to himself than to his companion as he scans the gray sky. He takes a step away from Talia and slowly turns himself around.

“I’m not sure,” he hears her say, her accent soft.

Seconds later, he can feel Talia’s back lightly press up against his. Despite the fact that they had been in the middle of a Fighting Circle, he finds some small comfort in knowing that she has his back during such an uncertain time as this. She may have challenged him for the kid, but she does not want him dead.

When he feels her body suddenly tense, his own senses go on high alert.

“There!” she exclaims.

He turns his head to the left and spies a ship breaking through the clouds. His gut twists, and as the ship circles them, he rushes to where he discarded his belts and cloak. With quick fingers, he straps on his gun belt before casting another glance at the sky. The ship has finished its circle and moves to his right. Believing it will settle between him and his ship, he presses a button on his gauntlet, commanding the _Crest_ to close its cargo door. At all costs, he needs to keep the child safe; he just hopes the little one is still sleeping.

“It’s an Onderonian transport ship,” he hears Talia comment.

While he fastens his second belt across his chest, he looks over his shoulder and finds her donning her own belts and weapons. He then eyes the ship as it does indeed land between their Fighting Circle and the _Crest_.

It is fairly big—large enough to hold about two dozen people inside. He knows a ship like that cannot travel in hyperspace, so he figures it must have been loaded onto a superior spacecraft which is probably hovering above the clouds or lingering in Cholganna’s orbit. And that means Talia’s people had spared no expense in time, resources, and manpower to get her back. She must be really loved or really hated for them to go through all this trouble just to find her.

As he puts on his gray cloak, he retorts, “I thought you would’ve done a better job going into hiding.”

“I thought so, too,” he hears her mutter under her breath.

When the transport lands, the doors rush open. Guards storm out and run towards them. He sees they are wearing a dull-gray armor with even duller burgundy-colored tunics underneath. Their helmets only cover their head, leaving their faces exposed. Some of them carry blaster rifles and lances, and seeing the weapons prompts the bounty hunter to yank out his own blaster. He curses himself for leaving his Amban sniper file onboard the _Crest_.

“What kind of enemies did you make?” he demands, temporarily ignoring the men running towards them. “How many are there?”

“Really?” she huffs. When she turns to face him, he notices that she had put on her blue shawl again and used it to cover her head. “You want me to tell you that—all of it— _right now_?”

“You weren’t exactly straightforward about it,” he snaps, the back of his mind figuring that the Onderonian guards will join them in less than twenty seconds.

“And look who’s talking!” Talia throws at him. She closes the distance between them. Her voice lowers in volume as she says, “You’ve kept your mouth closed since I met you. I’ve known a mute chattier than you!”

He opens his mouth to retaliate, but the Onderonians have arrived. In seconds, they form a tight circle around them, all of them pointing their blasters and lances at both him and Talia. He swivels his head left then right, counting not twelve guards but ten.

 _Nice odds,_ he thinks as his grip tightens around his blaster.

“Don’t move!” one guard shouts as he marches forward. His chest armor has gold embellishments at the edges, and the Mandalorian, figuring this man is the commander, points his blaster at him. “Drop your weapons!”

Beside him, Talia unfastens her vibrorapier from her belt with one hand, grabs her pistol with the other, and sets both weapons on the grass.

But the order makes him want to do the exact opposite. He has the sudden desire to shoot the commander first then take as many of the guards with him as possible. Yet he knows this is foolish thinking. After all, he and Talia are surrounded, out-numbered, and out-gunned. His thoughtless planning will get them both killed, and then who would look out for the child?

So, he reluctantly lays his blaster on the ground. He figures that if things go south, he at least has is vibrodagger stashed away in his boot.


	20. When Cultures Collide, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on a dialogue outline of this chapter for over a month, and I'm so excited I finally reached this point. But after I finished it, the chapter got really long, so I decided to split it into two. I am planning to post up Part II on Monday. Let me know what you think!

Chapter XX: When Cultures Collide, Part I

“Raise your hands!” the Onderonian commander barks out.

With a scowl the bounty hunter complies. As he raises his gloved hands, his right arm begins to throb again. Talia had definitely done her best to render it unusable; he will more than likely find a huge bruise there tomorrow. Swallowing a hiss, he interlocks his fingers behind his head.

“And yes,” the other man adds, his Onderonian accent a few notches softer than before. “You too, Lady Talia.”

 _Lady?_ the Mandalorian thinks. _Seems like she’s got a title to go with her aristocratic roots._

Craning his neck to the right, he finds Talia just barely deciding to follow the senior officer’s instructions. He notices her wince as she copies his stance of surrender. Her shoulder, where he had slammed into her, is probably sore and starting to feel stiff. Not being able to help it, he allows a spark of victory to stir within him. At least he will not be the only one developing bruises from their Circle.

Once Talia interlocks her fingers behind her head, she says to the Onderonian leader, “Really, Krayt? Is this necessary?”

His gaze returns to the man, Krayt, who appears to be in his mid-thirties. The bounty hunter notices Krayt’s hazel eyes shift away from Talia, as if Cholganna is the last planet he wants to be on. His tanned skin shines with sweat, and the bounty hunter doubts it is from the humidity thickening the air.

“I’m just following orders,” Krayt explains, signaling for his guards to relax in their offensive stances. “It’s nothing personal, my Lady.”

A commander reluctant to be here, a rich woman with enough influence to make him nervous, a small company of armed guards—it is all too peculiar for the Mandalorian to decipher what is going on without help.

Slightly annoyed, he turns to the woman in question and snaps, “What in the name of Mandalore have you gotten yourself into?”

She mirrors him, ignoring the guards surrounding them. “Nothing,” she calmly states, “which is the problem.”

“Well, it’s _my_ problem now. And you’ve dragged me into this,” he almost growls because the last thing he wants is to get involved with politics from a planet he has never been to.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Quiet, you two!” Krayt snaps.

“Who are you, really?” the bounty hunter demands, dismissing the other man entirely.

“I’ve told you already!”

“Not everything,” he snaps. “Governments don’t waste their time and men looking for an advisor with a conscience.”

“Step away from her, Mando,” Krayt orders, using his blaster rifle to separate them. But seeing the other man treating his weapon like some kind of walking staff, shooing him away from Talia, only irritates the bounty hunter.

Before he can tell Krayt to mind his own business, a thick Onderonian accent penetrates the air: “The Lady Talia isn’t one to be very forthcoming.”

Together, he and Talia turn to face the newcomer who is flanked by two more guards, and Krayt nods at him.

The bounty hunter sees a man in his early thirties with tanned skin darker than Talia’s, wearing an expensive orange tunic lined with gold embroidery at the edges. He looks as skinny as the Onderonian lances the guards are carrying, but he has a round belly. His jet-black hair is made of wavy ringlets, frizzy and greasy. Down below, his trousers are a beige-color, and his shoes remind the bounty hunter of Talia’s embellished slippers—except the man’s matches his tunic in color and is not designed with beads or fancy threading. Still, the slippers are unrealistic footwear for the jungle.

The new man’s words had rolled thickly off his tongue, and the bounty hunter greatly disliked hearing an element of condescension dripping from the skinny man’s voice. His nose is stubby as if it had been squished in at birth, and his puffy lips are curled into a sneer. And what makes the man appear even more comical are his eyes, which are close together, giving him a shifty-look. The clouds overhead cast long shadows across his arrogant expression, and in this dim light, the man’s skin makes his face look as if it had been bruised from a beating.

 _He wouldn’t survive even a whipping,_ the Mandalorian thinks with a half-smirk. _One punch would break him._

From his lavish clothing and haughty aura, the bounty hunter figures that the skinny man must be an Onderonian politician and, more than likely, a rival to Talia. He glances at her and sees her eyes grow as cold as Hoth. Her dark brows furrow slightly, and her mouth forms into a tight grimace.

 _She’s obviously not a fan of Puffy-lips,_ he muses. _This should be interesting._

“Bezden Cass,” Talia coolly breaks the silence, her gaze hardening at the politician. “I’m flattered you came all this way to personally say ‘good-bye.’”

At Cass’ sour face, the Mandalorian smirks to himself. He notes how the other man’s eyes narrow as he focuses on Talia.

“You have caused quite the uproar, _Kex_ ,” he replies, spitting out her Mandalorian surname. “I have much better things to do than track down your queer hide. But Lord Qasim trusts only me to get this done.”

“No, my _dear_ Bezden,” she sarcastically answers him. “Finding me is beneath Qasim . . . which is why he sent his lackey.”

Cass wrinkles his nose at the title and huffs, “I don’t have to take your insults anymore, _my Lady_. Restrain them, Captain!”

The order makes the bounty hunter’s muscles tense; he hates it when strangers lay their hands on him. But when the guards remain still, he quirks an eyebrow and glances around him. He sees the men exchange worried looks with each other before staring at Krayt for instructions. The Captain, still seeming quite uncomfortable, signals his men to obey Cass.

Within moments, the Mandalorian is trapped between two guards who have grabbed his upper arms; his right bicep pulses with discomfort. Instinctively, he tries to yank himself away from them, but their hold on him tightens. Next to him, Talia is undergoing the same treatment, and he wonders why she only looks annoyed at this unfair order and not angry.

Once they are both secured, he watches Cass strut up to Talia like a lanky-legged Vendaxan Acklay. His puffy lips curl into another sneer as his dark eyes appreciate the guards’ work.

“What lies are you accusing me of this time, Cass?” Talia sighs, clearly irritated. “Haven’t you learned by now that they never stick?”

“Oh, but I got you now, Kex. I’m charging you with spice-dealing.”

While Talia releases a scoff, the bounty hunter fights the urge to shake his head. _As if that charge is even believable,_ he thinks. He finds himself wondering how many political games the two of them have played, for he is fairly certain that Talia has a higher score than Cass.

The skinny man takes a step closer to her. “Lord Qasim had warned you that your leniency towards spice will catch your ankle one day.”

The Mandalorian wants to snort at the prediction. _He’s an idiot for believing she tolerates that stuff. No wonder he’s never trapped her._

“You set me up, Bezden,” she says. “You and your Boma of a master!”

“ _That_ was your own doing.” Cass lets out a gleeful cackle then leans in front of Talia’s face. “I’m going to enjoy taking you back to the palace, you half-breed cantina slut. And I’m going to do it even if I have to drag you by your precious braid.”

The bounty hunter feels his blood simmer at the insults. He is about to lash out one of his own when Talia suddenly spits at Cass, right in the eye. The bounty hunter grins at her spunk. Personally, he would have given that greasy-haired lackey a skull-cracking head-butt, yet seeing Cass squint with horror and quickly try to wipe the spit from his eye is priceless to witness.

In a flash, Cass slaps Talia across her face with the back of his hand, wiping the smirk off the bounty hunter’s mouth.

“Hey!” he shouts, his body surging towards the Onderonian. His two guards yank him backwards, and he ignores the pain in his right arm as they squeeze the muscle there harder.

He hears his fellow Mandalorian suck in a sharp breath. Glancing at her, he finds her head hanging down, her chin resting against her chest. When she raises a fiery gaze at Cass, the bounty hunter feels his blood boil: there is a red blotch forming on Talia’s once flawless cheek. His eyes survey Cass and spy a fat, yellow topaz ring decorating a skeleton-like finger. The bounty hunter returns his attention to Talia. If the ring had broken her skin, if she lost one drop of her Mandalorian blood, then Cass would be a dead man.

“Um, sir?” Krayt asks, his voice floating in the background.

Cass must not have heard his captain, for he gloats in front of Talia, saying, “Unlike some, _I’m_ not afraid of you.”

“Of course, you aren’t,” Talia sneers at him, making the bounty hunter proud of her fighting spirit. “I just had to be away from court and restrained for you to do that. You’re as ingenious as a Rodian.”

He watches Cass open his mouth to retaliate, but he is cut off when Talia looks at Krayt.

“Order your guards to release us,” she instructs, and there is a hint of a warning in her elegant accent. “Or I won’t be responsible for my actions, Captain.”

A scoff is about to escape the bounty hunter’s lips because there is no way she can do anything worth threatening, being restrained as she is. However, he suspects her previous influence on Onderon may still have some weight with the other man, so he closes his mouth, choosing to follow her lead.

“He doesn’t take orders from you anymore, Kex,” the politician snaps, arrogantly crossing his skinny arms.

“Please, Krayt.”

At her petition, he notices Cass drop his arms. He sends Talia a death-glare, and his hands clench at his sides, shaking uncontrollably. Sensing that the coward will strike her for a second time, the bounty hunter decides to divert Cass’ attention away from her.

“Touch her again,” he growls, “and I’ll kill you.”

Cass looks at him, and his tanned face flashes with surprise, as if he had forgotten the bounty hunter’s presence. The Onderonian’s upper lip quivers in disgust as his shifty eyes survey him in his silvery armor.

With a snort, Cass focuses on Talia again and says, “Another one of your Mandalorian lovers? You are _so_ predictable, Kex.”

The bounty hunter blinks, not sure how to respond. _What? I’m not some kind of—! Wait a sec. She’s had . . . lovers?_ his mind echoes. He steals a glance at Talia; her face has donned a neutral mask. He had never believed her to be the type to involve herself in trysts, for she has always seemed so . . . unattached. If that is even the right word.

“Sir!” Krayt loudly interrupts.

“What is it, Captain?” Cass snaps, forcing the bounty hunter out of his confused thoughts.

“We’re picking up—”

An engine’s roar thunders through the atmosphere, cutting off Krayt’s words. As the bounty hunter searches the skies, a handful of Mandalorians race out of the jungle. Seeing their famed helmets and layers of armor bring him a small sense of comfort and safety. More members of his culture, supplied with rocket packs, drop from the heavens like falling stars.

The engine’s roar grows louder, and soon another transport ship breaks through the clouds. It hovers above them for a few seconds before landing behind the bounty hunter and the Onderonians, thereby boxing them in between the other transport ship.

He swivels his head left then right, trying to evaluate the new situation. The Onderonian guards turn around and point their weapons at the new arrivals. They keep glancing back to Cass and Krayt, uncertainty etching across their tanned faces. Meanwhile, the Mandalorians slowly surround the group with blasters raised.

Taking advantage of the confusion, the bounty hunter surges to the right, his boots digging into the thin grass. He manages to pull himself and his guards closer to Talia before he is forced to a complete stop. His movement catches her eye, and when she glances his way, a grateful half-smile plays on her lips.

“Don’t move!” an Onderonian guard barks out once the new ship shuts down its engines.

“Stand down!”

“You have no authority here!”

“This is our business!”

“Lower your weapons!”

“Enough, Cass!” a loud, authoritative voice booms, rising above the nervous shouting from both parties.

Immediately, all voices are silenced, a feat that prompts the bounty hunter to look over his shoulder so he can see the man worthy of such obedience.

Behind him, walking towards the group, is a fellow Mandalorian wearing bulky armor. His helmet is mostly dull white with sections on the sides painted gray and blood-red. Around his neck, protecting his clavicle bones, is a blood-red covering, matching his scratched-up gauntlets in color. He has gray shoulder and upper-arm coverings, and there is a wolf-like symbol stamped on his right pauldron—his Clan’s signet no doubt. The bounty hunter notices three cords of braids hanging over the other man’s shoulder, and he wonders about their significance.

Still craning his neck as the newcomer walks closer, the bounty hunter appreciates the man’s breast-plate. Its gray and dull white surface is polished, and imprinted on the right side, over the man’s pectoral, is the Mythosaur skull. The Mandalorian symbol is a dark purple—the color of Clan Kex. Wrapped around his waist are two belts, one fastened to a decorative vibrosword while the other features a holstered pistol. Strapped behind the man’s shoulders is an impressive blaster rifle.

Beside the bounty hunter, he hears Talia breathe out a quiet sigh of relief, but he does not glance her way. His eyes are fixed on the newcomer, along with everyone else’s. The Mandalorians lower their weapons ever so slightly, and they nod at the man as he walks past them.

 _Their commander,_ the bounty hunter figures.

“You can’t order me around!” Cass calls out to the Mandalorian leader. “I am here on Onderon’s behalf. And you—”

“Represent the Clans,” the man interrupts, his voice relatively free of an accent. With the height of about six feet and a hefty build, he positions himself to the bounty hunter’s left. “And you left the _Drexl_ without me and my men.”

 _That must be their ship,_ the bounty hunter deduces, tucking that information away for later. _Drexl sounds like an animal._

Cass’ expression flickers with annoyance as he declares, “I don’t need your permission.”

“No,” the other man states, his voice deep. “But if you think Clan Kex is going to stand by while you abuse one of our own—”

“You talk as if _she’s_ the one who needs protecting. You’re always ready to do her bidding,” Cass hisses. He even has the idiocy to lower his voice, as if the subject of his conversation is not standing right in front of him. “We all know she can be as unpredictable as a Trandoshan. The only reason why Lord Qasim allowed you Mandalorians to accompany me is because you’re capable of taming that manipulative witch. Your purpose, _Colonel_ , is to make sure she cooperates. By any means necessary,” the skinny man adds with a pointed look.

Hearing more insults coming from the coward reignites the growing hatred the bounty hunter is feeling towards him. He watches as the Mandalorian colonel glances at both him and his companion, his gaze focusing on Talia for five seconds longer.

“Looks like she’s giving you some trouble already,” he remarks to the politician, his voice sounding tight. “What’s the matter with you, Cass? Did you actually believe she was going to be complacent? And with you of all people?” The man scoffs. “Order your guards to stand down. Or my men will not hesitate to do it for them.”

“Your men wouldn’t dare attack the Royal Guard,” Cass ventures to say, but the obvious fear in his gaze makes the bounty hunter roll his eyes.

“They would for a clan member. Don’t treat loyalty lightly, Cass. Especially Mandalorian loyalty,” the Colonel reminds him. “Tell your men to _stand down_.”

The bounty hunter notices Cass’ arrogant expression flinch at the warning hidden in the Colonel’s instruction. His orange tunic shimmers in the dull light when he raises a hand at his Onderonian commander.

“Captain Krayt, tell our men to lower their weapons.”

“And send them back to your transport,” the Colonel quickly adds before Krayt can even issue the order, and Cass’ eyes bulge at this.

“But—!”

“Do it, Cass,” the Mandalorian leader growls. “Your recklessness has made it _my_ problem now.”

With a half-smirk, the bounty hunter watches as Cass crosses his arms, unashamedly sulking for being told what to do, like the lacky he is.

“Fine, Colonel. But Lord Qasim will hear of this. And Lord Kavan.”

As Cass turns his back to the other man, the Mandalorian remarks, “I believe Lord Kavan would take my side.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the skinny man snaps over his shoulder. “He’s more Onderonian these days.” He stomps over to Krayt, his orange slippers squishing in the dewy grass. “Round the men up, Captain. We’re going back to the ship.”

Following orders, Krayt signals for his Onderonians to retreat. In a single-file line, they all march behind their leader. Thankfully, the guards restraining both the bounty hunter and Talia also follow. He is relieved when their tight grip on him disappears, giving his throbbing right arm a chance to breathe.

As he picks up his discarded pistol from the ground, he hears the Colonel say, “Lieutenant Lance!”

“I am ready!” a young voice replies.

The Colonel orders his second-in-command to instruct the Mandalorians to form a circle around the three of them, giving them no more than a three-yard radius.

While further directions are issued, the bounty hunter moves closer to Talia. She is retrieving her own weapons when he quietly asks her, “You okay?”

As she slides her pistol in her holster, she gives him a reassuring smile. “I am. And you?”

“I’m fine.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees about half of the Onderonian men waiting next to their transport ship. Cass is nowhere to be seen, and he figures the coward is inside the transport, no doubt trying to communicate with his boss and complain about how things are not going in his favor.

He is on the verge of asking how Talia’s cheek is fairing when he senses another presence. Turning, he finds the Mandalorian Colonel walking towards them. His shoulders unconsciously straighten as the bigger man nears.

A teasing smile flashes on Talia’s lips as she greets the intruder. “Dacob Ryk’ken. I’m glad they sent someone with sense.”

At that moment, the other man reaches for his helmet and, much to the bounty hunter’s surprise, removes it entirely and tucks it under his arm. He almost turns away, for his Tribe’s teachings dictate that a Mandalorian should not remove his helmet in front of anyone. But remembering that the Dxun Clans think differently, he ignores his initial response and allows his eyes to survey the other man’s face.

The Colonel, Dacob Ryk’ken, has dark skin and short-cropped hair, reminding the bounty hunter of Greef Karga. He has startling pale green eyes and a serious expression. From the healthy glow of the man’s skin, he figures Ryk’ken to be nearing his forties. A circle beard, thin and black, covers his smooth and freckle-free face, making the bounty hunter assume that Ryk’ken takes off his helmet regularly. He knows from personal experience that facial hair, sweat, and a head-covering make wearing a Beskar helmet uncomfortable, which is why he himself shaves whenever he is able.

He watches as Talia and Ryk’ken move towards one another. They place their right hands on each other’s left shoulders before leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. The bounty hunter assumes this is a sign of greeting between Dxun clan members. He cannot see Talia’s expression during this . . . intimate moment; however, he has a clear view of Ryk’ken. The other man has his eyes closed, and a soft smile, boasting of pleasure and enjoyment, spreads across his dark lips, making the bounty hunter’s spine straighten.

 _Looks like someone’s happy to see her,_ a self-conscious part of him mutters.

The three-second greeting feels longer to him, and when the “friends” break apart, releasing their holds on each other, Ryk’ken cups the side of Talia’s hurt cheek. With a gloved hand, he brushes underneath the welt that Cass had given to her.

“Are you all right, Tallie?” Ryk’ken asks, the nickname jarring the bounty hunter. “If Cass did this to you, I’ll skin him if you’d let me.”

She shakes her shawl-covered head and pulls away from his touch. “I’m fine, old friend. Though the offer is tempting. Like always.”

Ryk’ken flashes her a teasing smile. “One of these days you’re going to let me do it.”

“And you know that day won’t happen.”

Tired of being ignored, the bounty hunter interrupts them by saying, “Can we just cut to the chase?”

Both turn to him. Talia sends him a half-smile full of amusement, and he feels himself smirk when he sees that Ryk’ken catches her fond expression and frowns. His green eyes critically sweep him up and down before asking, “And you are?”

Tempted to cross his arms and refuse to answer, he notices Talia lifting a hand to him, indicating that she will do the talking. So, he remains silent.

“This, Dac,” she begins, “is Danaan Traxell. He’s from Clan Wren. From Mandalore.”

He allows himself to feel impressed that Talia had come up with a fake name and Clan within a matter of seconds. However, it strikes him as eerie that she had chosen a first name that started with the same letter of his actual given name. The idea makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Ryk’ken gives him a nod, stiff and professional. “It’s a privilege to meet a _vod_ * from Mandalore. My condolences for the Purge.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: vohd; translation: “brother”, also “sister”)_

He returns the nod, his just as stiff as Ryk’ken’s.

“I don’t see Wren’s signet though,” the Colonel observes, his eyes squinting with suspicion. “You’re a bounty hunter,” he realizes aloud before turning to Talia. “Really, Tallie? I’ve seen you with all sorts of people, but I didn’t think you’d tolerate being in _his_ presence.”

Frustrated for being look down upon because of his vocation, the bounty hunter huffs, “Are all Dxun Mandalorians this snobby?”

“He isn’t like most hunters,” Talia defends him.

However, Ryk’ken ignores her. He steps closer to him and dares, “Say something like that again, Traxell. I haven’t had a good fight in weeks.”

“Getting tired of beating new recruits?” the bounty hunter retorts, assessing the Colonel for weak spots. He unconsciously rests his gloved hand on his holstered pistol.

Ryk’ken’s green eyes grow cold, and his dark brows furrow. “Then you should fit right in. From the look of your armor, you haven’t proven yourself to be a warrior yet. You’re nothing but galaxy scum.”

The insults make his blood rage, and his hand tightly clutches his blaster’s grip. He is in the process of yanking out his weapon when Ryk’ken retrieves a small vibrodagger from his blood-red gauntlet. Both of their weapons are on the verge of flashing in the dull sunlight until Talia quickly places a hand on each of theirs. The bounty hunter glances at her. She is standing beside the men, almost lodging herself in between them. Her hand is firm as it discourages him from pulling out his blaster completely.

“Dan! Dacob! _Please_ ,” she harshly whispers to them. She sends each of them a stern look. “Not in front of the men.”

Ryk’ken glares at him, and the bounty hunter returns it. He refuses to back down first and let the Colonel win this battle of wills. So, when Ryk’ken stashes away his dagger and takes a step back, the bounty hunter smirks. Talia, still holding onto his hand, sends the Colonel a thankful smile. The proud look Ryk’ken gives him makes the bounty hunter realize that Ryk’ken relented first so his action would impress Talia, thereby making the bounty hunter appear to be unreasonable and uncivilized.

To deflate the Colonel’s victory, the bounty hunter lays his free hand on Talia’s, trapping her between both of his. “Sorry about that,” he quietly says.

After she gives his hand a brief squeeze, they both let go.

Not being able to help himself, he steals a glance at Ryk’ken. The other man’s expression is stony, his gaze emanating displeasure, and the bounty hunter finds himself smirking again.

 _Now he knows what it feels like to be ignored,_ he spitefully thinks.

“So, why all this fuss to take Talia back to Onderon?” he asks Ryk’ken. “She left. Can’t you guys just leave her alone?”

“She is none of your concern, bounty hunter.”

“She is as long as I can see her.”

“Dacob,” Talia breaks in. “Dan’s only asking what I was going to. He just beat me to it. Why _have_ you been looking for me?”

Ryk’ken shifts his gaze to him then back to Talia. Afterwards, he lays a hand on her upper arm and gently pulls her away from the bounty hunter, saying, “Not in front of him, Tallie.”

Instinctively, he wants to say something and move closer. But he figures he will learn more if he pretends to act disinterested, which can give him the chance to listen to their conversation. So, he crosses his arms in a huff and slightly turns away just enough for him to see the two Dxun Mandalorians in his peripheral vision.

“Dac, he isn’t going to blab this across the Republic,” Talia reasons, a hint of criticism in her elegant accent.

“You know I don’t trust his kind. I’m surprised you do,” Ryk’ken answers her. “How’d you meet him anyways?”

The bounty hunter sees Talia shrug her shoulders. “Our paths crossed. And he’s . . . helped me with a few things.”

“Like with a Fighting Circle? Did he challenge you?”

“No, I did.”

“What? Why?” Ryk’ken demands, his deep voice going up a notch. The bounty hunter wants to snicker at his reaction.

“It was nothing,” Talia dismisses.

“You’re being mysterious again. What aren’t you telling me this time?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“But he does?” Ryk’ken asks, nodding at the bounty hunter. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Why is Onderon looking for me?” she throws back at him.

 _Ever the politician,_ the bounty hunter inwardly chuckles. To keep up the charade of not listening, he pretends to fiddle with one of his gauntlets.

“Why wouldn’t we? You just disappeared. You didn’t tell anyone. Not me,” Ryk’ken lists. “Not even your family. They were afraid for you. And Thea almost panicked if Kavan didn’t calm her down.”

The bounty hunter can detect hurt in the Colonel’s voice, and he wonders how long the two have been friends. Again, he crosses his arms and surveys the circle of Mandalorians stationed around them. He estimates their numbers to range from ten to twelve.

“What do you mean I left without telling anyone? I—”

“Don’t play games with me, please,” the other man interrupts, clearly mistaking her question. “I’m being serious. I knew you wanted to escape Court. Dxun knows! —We’ve talked about it enough for a while now. I just,” he mutters. “I just thought you’d tell me, and then I’d go with you.”

 _Maybe Ryk’ken’s one of those Mandalorian lovers Cass was talking about,_ the bounty hunter considers. The idea makes him shift his feet. Perhaps he should not be eavesdropping after all.

“Oh, Dac,” Talia sighs. “ _You_ always thought that, but I didn’t. I couldn’t drag you away from your family.”

_Okay, so maybe I’m wrong._

“You know they’re old enough to take care of themselves without me,” Ryk’ken says.

 _Does that mean he’s not married?_ _Or would he leave his wife for her?_ The bounty hunter weighs the options.

“You know my hands have been tied for too long,” Talia reminds him. “I wanted to be somewhere else and just let go. Of _everything_.”

‘She needs to be free,’ the bounty hunter is tempted to call out to the Colonel. ‘Shouldn’t you know that by now?’

“Talia,” Ryk’ken sighs, his voice gentle. “I’m one of the few people who knows the real you. Of course, I know you’ve wanted to leave. It just upset me when you left without a word.”

 _I thought she said she left her people a data-pad with her final orders,_ the bounty hunter remembers. He suppresses the urge to glance in her direction.

“But I did, Dac,” Talia says, voicing his thoughts. “I left instructions, ‘good-byes,’ last words—all of it on my personal data-pad. I resigned my place as advisor and Clan Leader at court. I even named _you_ as my replacement.”

Wanting to see Ryk’ken’s reaction, the bounty hunter subtly turns to the side so he can have a clearer view. He notices the other man’s expression morph into confusion, his brows furrowing.

“There was no data-pad.”

“Of course, there is. I put it on my desk, in my chambers.”

“Tallie, we didn’t find it.”

At this, the Onderonian woman breaks away from Ryk’ken and begins to pace. The bounty hunter debates the idea of Talia misplacing her data-pad, but he does not consider her to be forgetful of something so important to her.

 _Maybe it got lost?_ he wonders but remains silent.

Talia returns to Ryk’ken yet does not stand as close to him as before. The bounty hunter hears her ask, “Then who searched my chambers first when I didn’t follow you back from Concord Dawn?”

“The Royal Guard,” the Colonel automatically answers. “But . . . they were Qasim’s men.” He shakes his head. “He must’ve gotten his hands on it.”

“And didn’t tell anyone, as usual,” Talia huffs, and the bounty hunter can hear annoyance painting her tone.

 _I guess this Qasim guy is another one of her rivals,_ he figures. _He sounds pretty influential. And ambitious to want to get rid of her._

Ryk’ken’s deep voice interrupts his thoughts when he reveals, “About that same time Cass announced at Court that he’d been informed that spice was loaded onboard your ship.”

“And with no resignation, I looked like a fugitive.”

“And a deserter to the Crown and to the Clans,” the Colonel adds.

Talia sighs and glances around them. “That’s why you came after me. But how did you find me? I turned off my tracking system.”

Curious himself, the bounty hunter’s ears perk up.

“I’m honestly not sure,” Ryk’ken admits, his tone quiet. “Cass tried to keep me in the dark most of the trip. He wasn’t thrilled Ridha insisted I join him.”

 _Who’s Ridha?_ the bounty hunter asks himself. Ridha, Kavan, Qasim, Thea—all of these names are getting hard for him to keep track of.

“So, it’s true then?” Talia softly asks, and hearing sadness in her voice makes the bounty hunter’s shoulders straighten. “That means Thea isn’t . . .?”

He watches Ryk’ken reach out a hand and rub Talia’s shoulder as he gently says, “I’m sorry. But . . . you knew it was coming.”

She nods at this, her blue shawl rippling from her movement. “I did,” she heavily sighs. “I just didn’t want to be there when it happened.”

 _Did this Thea person die?_ the bounty hunter wonders. _And Talia couldn’t bear to see it? So, who’s Ridha? Thea’s replacement?_

“We _were_ tracking you though. For a few days,” Ryk’ken shares, dropping his hand. “Then we lost the signal. Our sensors picked it back up about two days ago.”

 _Okay, what happened here at that time? What could’ve given her position away?_ The bounty hunter combs through his memory. Two days ago would place both him and Talia on _Starlight_ after he showed her the spice. _And then she recorded a message with her droid . . . That bucket of bolts gave her away,_ he realizes.

“Cass must’ve planted a tracking device on my ship,” Talia figures aloud. “But I had R6 scan it before we left Concord.”

Deciding that it is time for him to speak up, the bounty hunter walks over to them and interrupts their interesting conversation.

“The droid,” he flatly answers. “It has to be the droid. Talia, you turned him on two days ago. It betrayed you.”


	21. When Cultures Collide, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II, as promised. Enjoy!

Chapter XXI: When Cultures Collide, Part II

At his statement, Talia looks at him and shakes her head. “No, R6 would never do that. It’s against his programming to be disloyal to me.”

“But Tallie, you _had_ sent R6 to be worked on before we headed for Concord,” Ryk’ken tells her, his pale green eyes lighting up at the revelation.

“Yes. He wanted to update his system.”

“That’s where your counterparts must’ve gotten to him,” the bounty hunter says. “Since they were planning to frame you for spice—”

“They needed to keep an eye on me,” she interrupts him, and behind her gaze he can see the pieces sliding into place. “And they used R6—”

“To keep tabs on you,” Ryk’ken finishes.

“That’s why droids can’t be trusted,” the bounty hunter automatically states.

Talia glances at him. “No. R6 had no idea. I’m sure of it, Dan.”

The new name she had given him sounds so much like his real one that he almost flinches at it. But he tells his body not to react because she cannot possibly know his real name.

“Where is R6 now?” Ryk’ken asks her.

“On my ship.”

“And is there a copy of your data-pad in his processor?”

She nods. “I used him to do my holo-recordings. I didn’t think I would’ve needed it.”

“We can’t let Cass or one of his men get their hands on him,” the Colonel states. He turns his head, searching for someone in particular. “Lieutenant!”

“I am ready,” a Mandalorian with shiny blood-red armor answers.

“Lance, send two men to Lady Talia’s ship. Guard her astrodroid. He has important information that Cass mustn’t have.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Lieutenant Lance carries out the orders, Ryk’ken turns back to Talia. “You have to come back to Onderon with me. To clear yourself of this mess.”

“Can’t you take R6?” she reasons. “That should be enough.”

Ryk’ken cocks a black eyebrow at her. “You know it’s not.”

The bounty hunter is about to argue with the other man when a thick Onderonian accent cuts through the humid air.

“Colonel Ryk’ken!”

The three Mandalorians glance in the direction of the arrogant voice and find Cass glaring at them. His orange tunic is hard to miss.

“A word,” the skinny man calls out. “The Lords Qasim and Kavan wish to speak to you.”

With a muffled groan, the Colonel plasters a grim smile on his face and waves at Cass. Then, he says to Talia and the bounty hunter, “Stay here, _both_ of you. I need for it to look like you’re cooperating.”

Talia nods, but the bounty hunter does not. Ryk’ken rolls his eyes at him before marching away to join Cass.

“It looks like I’m going back home,” she sighs, and he can detect disappointment in her voice. “My planet’s roots won’t let me go.”

“The evidence on the droid is enough to clear you,” he says. “Ryk’ken just wants more time to convince you to let him leave Onderon with you.”

Talia shakes her head, a half-smile ghosting across her dark pink lips. “Be careful, Ordo,” she teases him in a whisper. “Or I might find jealously in your voice.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Kex.”

Their comradery dissipates when she glances around them, taking in the ring of Mandalorians guarding them. Her smile disappears, and she presses her lips together in a straight line.

“I don’t think we’ll have much time,” she tells him. “And there are so many things I want to say.”

“And I have lots of questions for you.”

“I’m sure.”

He also looks around them, counting nine Mandalorian guards, three Onderonians in the distance, and both Ryk’ken and Cass. The odds are against him and Talia, and there is no way he can reach the _Crest_ from where they are standing. Still, a reckless part of him—no doubt rubbed off from his female companion—wants to give an offensive maneuver a try. Even though he would be going up against his fellow Mandalorians, he justifies his reasoning by reminding himself that no person should be denied freedom for as long as Talia has been.

Lowering his gravelly voice, he says to her, “If you don’t want to go back, I think we can take them.”

Her eyebrows lift up in surprise. “There are two dozen guards here.”

“Only fourteen outside,” he corrects. “I like those odds. I think we can handle them.”

“No, that’s too rash. Even for me,” she admits.

There is a faraway look in her dark eyes, and he is willing to bet top credits that she is re-living some kind of war memory. “Sounds like you’ve done suicide missions before,” he remarks, expecting her to correct him.

She hums before revealing, “I’ve been known to do a handful, and covert missions, for the Rebel Alliance over the years.”

His eyes widen at this, and he swivels his head to look at her again. Intrigued, he asks, “On- or off-planet?”

“Both.”

Silence settles between them, and his mind scrambles for something to say. But he cannot find the right topic. Within the next hour, possibly in less than five minutes, Talia will be dragged back to Onderon. He does not know if there will be consequences for her actions, if she will be successful in untangling herself from the dutiful chains that have prevented her from being able to live in the same freedom that he has taken for granted.

“Will you be okay?” he finds himself asking. But he quickly adds, “We still have a challenge to finish. I’d prefer if my opponent is in one piece.”

“And here I thought you were concerned about me,” she chuckles before giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first mud-puddle to clean myself from.” She pauses and drops her gaze. When she looks up, she hesitantly asks, “Come to Onderon?”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Come back with me,” she repeats, and he sees hope shining in her dark eyes. “I can have things cleared up in no time, and we can finish our Fighting Circle.”

Instinctively, he shakes his head. “Onderon is too deep in the New Republic. Too many people.”

“But Iziz is a fortress,” she reasons, defending her planet’s capital. “The youngling will be safe there. No bounty hunter can get to him if he’s in the palace. And an Imperial warlord wouldn’t dare show his face in the Inner Rim.”

As her eyes stare up at his visor, he gives her the courtesy of re-thinking his answer. Talia had made some good points about Onderon being a safe haven for the kid, but he does not believe her plan would work. The kid, with his pointy ears and green skin, is very distinctive looking, and it would be hard for people not to forget him. The bounty hunter wants to keep the special alien’s location and status low-key for as long as he can.

Besides, he does not want to be dragged into Talia’s world of politics and petty back-stabbers. Secrets revolve around her, and they may bleed on him. His top priority is the child, and he regrets allowing the little one to become attached to her and to the possibility of traveling with just the three of them. Already the child is responding to the name she had given him.

No, it will be better for all them if they go their separate ways.

“I can’t,” he murmurs. When he catches disappointment in her gaze, he steels himself by adding, “I won’t risk the kid’s safety.”

“All right,” she sighs. “I won’t spend time arguing with you. But promise me you’ll look out for Vandar.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve already promised that to myself.”

She nods at him. “Then promise me you’ll look out for yourself.”

As he studies her eyes, he finds genuine concern and even care hidden in their dark depths. He clears his throat and says, “I’ll do my best. That’s as close to a promise as I can get.”

“I guess that’ll have to do then. I’ll make sure my people won’t give you any trouble here.”

He frowns at her, not sure what she means. So far, no one has bothered him too much. Most of everyone’s attention and insults have been directed at her. He is about to ask her to explain her meaning when a deep voice calls out to her.

“Lady Talia!”

They both look to his right and find Ryk’ken motioning for her to join him. He is holding a communications hologram in his gloved hand, and the bounty hunter can see two small figures projected from it. Beside Ryk’ken is Cass, standing with his arms clasped behind his back.

“I won’t be long,” she murmurs to him before walking over to her friend and cowardly rival.

After she reaches Ryk’ken and takes the holo-projector from him, the bounty hunter watches as she turns her back to him, thereby blocking his view of the holograms. It is then that Ryk’ken marches over to him.

When the Colonel stands next to him, the bounty hunter tilts his head to the side to look at his new companion.

“She thinks you’re going to sneak off,” Ryk’ken supplies, his voice sounding irritated. “So, she wants me to keep you here.”

 _And you’re hating it,_ the bounty hunter inwardly observes.

“Cass was right,” he tells the other man. “You always do what she says.”

“She asked me for a favor,” Ryk’ken states in an even tone. “And _friends_ are the ones who carry out favors.”

From the way the Colonel said “friends,” it does not strike the bounty hunter as simply being an emphasis. He sneaks a glance at him, finding Ryk’ken clenching his jaw and staring intently at Talia. He remembers his earlier thought of the big Colonel possibly being one of those Mandalorian lovers that Cass was talking about. Yet, something tells the bounty hunter that Ryk’ken, a married man or not, would more than likely wed Talia rather than have her as a mere lover, especially if he has a family made up of adult kids. However, from what the bounty hunter has seen, Talia only regards Ryk’ken as an old friend. If she did not, the Colonel would have been traveling with her.

Wanting to test his hypothesis, he asks, “Does she know you want to be more than friends?”

He senses Ryk’ken tense beside him. His accent-free voice is strained and tight when he replies, “ _That_ is none of your business.”

The response was not an out-right denial, nor was it a confirmation. The bounty hunter’s interest stirs even more, making him wonder just how Talia declined the other man’s offer. Gently? Flatly?

“So, she does,” he comments, not being able to help himself. “And she turned you down.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the Colonel send him a glare, but he ignores it. Now, his gaze is focusing on Talia while she is still engaged with Cass and the holograms. Her royal blue shawl seems darker in the dim sunlight.

“What’s it like constantly looking behind your back, bounty hunter?” Ryk’ken goads him. “It must be exhausting.”

“It keeps me alert,” he answers in a flat tone.

“Which Clan are you really from?”

“You heard the lady.”

“Anyone from Clan Wren would be wearing their signet,” Ryk’ken points out. “What are you hiding, besides your face?”

Tired of being prodded to reveal his identity, he turns to the other man and coolly remarks, “A true Mandalorian would wear his helmet at all times.”

“No,” the Colonel retaliates. “He takes his off so he can look his enemies and his allies in the eye.”

“Then you’re a fool for exposing yourself.”

“At least I’m not hiding behind my helmet like a coward.”

The bounty hunter can feel his blood begin to boil again, and the temptation to yank out his pistol nearly overwhelms him.

“Colonel Ryk’ken!” an elegant accent floats on the humid air.

Pushing aside his annoyance and the insult, he turns to the voice, finding Talia striding towards them. Behind her is Cass, who is flanked by two guards.

“I’ve been ordered back to Onderon,” Talia informs both him and Ryk’ken.

Cass opens his puffy lips and says, “Colonel, you are to take her ship. And a couple of your men, too. The prisoner,” he nods at Talia, “is coming with me on my transport back to the _Drexl_.”

“What? No, you’re—”

“It’s all right, Dacob,” she interrupts. “I agreed to it. I’ll see you on Onderon.”

“Well, _I_ don’t agree with the traveling arrangements,” Ryk’ken protests.

“You have no say in the matter,” Cass snaps. “Leave your son in charge of her security if it’ll make you feel better.”

 _His son?_ the bounty hunter wonders, wanting to scoff. _He brought his son to help find the woman he’s attached to?_

“I will,” the Colonel defiantly agrees. “Lieutenant!”

The man leaves the group and speaks with his second-in-command wearing red armor—the officer who is apparently his son. The bounty hunter figures that Ryk’ken must have been very young to have a son old enough to not only be in the guard but to also hold a high rank. He supposes Ryk’ken had little choice in the matter of having his son, Lance, accompany him in the search for Talia, since both men serve the monarch and the Dxun Clans. Still, he would not be surprised if their journey from Onderon had been an awkward one.

“You, bounty hunter. You’re free to leave,” Cass says, breaking into his thoughts. “As per Kex’s request. But you are to remain here until we’ve boarded our transport ships. Come along, Kex.”

“A moment please,” Talia asks, her voice diplomatic. “You will have my full cooperation if you just let me speak to him.”

Cass rolls his eyes but relents. “Fine. You have two minutes.”

 _Which isn’t enough to say anything,_ the bounty hunter inwardly grumbles.

As Cass and his guards take a few steps away from them, he sees Ryk’ken stalk towards _Starlight_ , two men trailing after him. The son-lieutenant stands behind Cass while the rest of his Mandalorian men return to their transport ship in an orderly fashion.

“Our paths will cross again,” he hears Talia say. “I’m sure of it.”

Looking at her, he affirms, “We have a duel to finish.”

“I’m glad you won’t forget me,” she quietly chuckles. “Here.”

He watches her pull out something from underneath her right hand-wrap. When she lifts it up for him to see, his mouth goes dry. There, trapped in her delicate fingers, is her Mandalorian ring. The black gold looks as sleek as ever, and the amethyst stones sparkle in the gray light.

“Take this,” she says in a low voice, offering him the ring. “As an excuse to come looking for me.”

“I can’t,” he quickly replies. “It belongs to you.”

“Please. If you do go to Onderon, tell the guards you know me. And show them this. They’ll believe you.”

Knowing another rejection of her valuable gift would only make her insist even more that he take it, he tries a different tactic. “I don’t need it. I doubt I’ll be near Onderon at all.”

Her eyes sweep over his visor, and she nods. He swallows a sigh of relief when she retracts her ring and closes her hand around it. “Then I guess I’ll be the one finding you.”

“How?”

“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again,” she assures him with a small smile, and he catches a twinkle in her eyes. “Call it destiny.”

“I don’t believe in it.”

“You will,” she whispers.

He is about to offer her a quiet ‘good-bye’ when Talia reaches for his hand. This time, his muscles do not tense, and he does not have the urge to pull away from her. He feels her fingers part the end of his sleeve and glove like she did after they burned the spice. Her thumb slides against the inside of his wrist ever so softly, and he takes this moment to memorize her diamond-shaped face. The welt on her cheek is still red, but it will not scar. His gut twists at the idea of what could happen on the Onderonian ship with Cass and his minions.

He does not know how long it will be until he sees her again, this woman who has managed to peel back layers of his past. She has offered kindness, hospitality, and comfort, to both him and the child. Despite her stubbornness and mysterious behavior, Talia proved to be an ally during the Nexu attack. She had set aside her own welfare the moment she saved his life, and he is grateful for her sacrifice.

As he gazes into her dark brown eyes, he feels something hard and made of metal slip in between his glove and wrist. Slowly, it slides down to his palm, and he tilts his head to the side, silently asking her to tell him what she is doing.

“For what it’s worth,” she murmurs as she pulls her hand away from his wrist, “I’m sorry for being so difficult. And for the things I said to you yesterday.”

Not being able to help himself, he adds, “And for disappearing on me.”

She smiles at him. “Yes, especially for that.”

“Well, in that case,” he slowly replies, “I’m sorry, too.”

Something in the air shifts between them. The humidity is so thick he can taste it from behind his helmet. As Talia continues to stare up at him, he can almost swear on his Mandalorian armor that her eyes are piercing down to his soul.

“I would’ve dearly liked to have known your name . . . Danaan Traxell,” she murmurs to him.

For one tempting moment, the bounty hunter wants to tell her. His old name enters his mind, and he finds himself almost forming the words to say it. His mouth opens, but his tongue refuses to work.

“My Lady,” a gentle voice interrupts them. It is Lieutenant Lance. “Forgive me. But . . . it’s time.”

Talia is still looking up at him, and he cannot tear his gaze away from her. She lays a hand on his left shoulder, offering him the Dxun Clans’ greeting—and good-bye apparently. So, he copies her movement, resting a gloved hand on her left shoulder. The moment he does this, Talia moves slightly closer to him, and without thinking, he leans his own body forward, not stopping until her forehead rests against his helmet.

The seconds drag by like a measured yet steady heartbeat. He watches Talia close her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, he is startled to see a glossiness covering her brown eyes. His chest tightens at the realization that she has become so attached to him to the point of tears—a sentiment he does not deserve.

Knowing he needs to let her go, he murmurs, “This is the way.”

“I am ready,” she whispers before pulling back. She offers him a tiny smile then drops her hand from his shoulder and walks away from him.

He notices that her steps are heavy, her boots making impressions in the green field. As she joins her escort, she straightens her posture and clasps her hands behind her back. He knows she has just donned the mask of an Onderonian politician, prepared to discredit her rivals from this moment on.

Something deep tingles down to his bones, and he finds himself wanting to intervene. He does not believe Talia is returning to her homeworld of her own free will. The recordings on her droid should have been enough to clear her. No, her meeting with those two holograms had changed things. Whoever the projections were, he is sure that they must have bullied her into going back to Onderon. That can be the only explanation.

He notices Lieutenant Lance break away from Talia’s group then jog behind him, towards the Mandalorian transport. He can hear the Lieutenant ordering the rest of his men to board their ship, and soon the engines from both transports roar with life, temporarily replacing the jungle noises.

When Talia’s escort reaches their transport, he sees her and Cass shouting over the engines. The skinny man is gesturing for Krayt to do something, and like earlier, the Captain seems to hesitate before following Cass’ orders. Curious, the bounty hunter uses his helmet’s vision to zoom in on the scene several yards away from him.

In the blink of an eye, he watches Talia defiantly crossing her arms. He takes a few steps closer but halts when Talia turns to look in his direction. She briefly shakes her head “no” at him then pushes her hands forward to Cass, surrendering herself to him. At this, Krayt snaps a pair of restraining cuffs around her wrists.

 _That’s not good,_ his gut warns him, and within seconds his brain starts to form an assault plan.

He figures that as long as Talia, with her three guards plus Cass, remain outside their ship, he may be able to extract her. The majority of the Royal Guard are inside the Onderonian ship, and he believes—with an accurate shot to the door’s panel—that he can keep them in there, trapped. The Mandalorian transport and _Starlight_ are both in the air. So, by the time they realize something is wrong, he would have trapped the Onderonians inside their ship, disposed of four threats, crossed the distance separating them, and hurried Talia back to the _Crest_.

A sense of restlessness surges through his veins, making his muscles tense in anticipation. His hand grips his holstered pistol, and he takes a few more steps forward. But Talia must have noticed because she sends him a glare. Even without using his helmet to zoom in, he would have known her glare was telling him not to interfere.

Naturally, he wants to ignore her silent command, yet he feels his muscles suddenly relax, reminding him of when they first met. He had been ready to eliminate her as a threat, but she had this aura of serenity radiating from her, encouraging him to stand down. Like then, he allows that feeling to influence his actions, so he decides to simply watch and wait.

Without a moment’s notice, Talia is forced to turn her back on him with two guards positioned beside her, each gripping her upper arms. He focuses on Cass, who is standing in front of her. He can see the arrogance and pettiness on the skinny man’s face as he motions for Krayt to follow another order.

Quickly, the Captain walks behind Talia, lifts up a hand, and injects her with something at her neck. His eyes widen as he watches her collapse into Krayt’s arms, and he does not realize he is moving towards them until his vision is filled with the ship itself.

Realizing the problem, he orders his helmet to return his vision to normal. He is about halfway to the Onderonian ship when he sees Krayt carry Talia inside with Cass scurrying behind them. Then, the two other guards whip around and point their blaster rifles at him, but he ignores them and yanks out his pistol. His pulse beats faster, echoing in his ears like a drum. He raises his weapon in front of him just as the guards back up into the transport. His finger wraps around the trigger, ready to squeeze it, but something stops him.

 _The kid,_ his brain prods.

If he fires his weapon, if he interferes, he will be entering a battle he cannot win. He does not know if the transport ships have weapons, but even if they did not, the men from the Japrael System outnumber him. If he is taken prisoner, charged with interfering with Onderonian politics, then the _Crest_ will be seized, and the child will be discovered. If he is killed here or possibly executed on Onderon, who will protect the special infant?

No, he should not get involved. He has to stay out of this; it does not concern him. Talia, though presently sedated, is strong. She can deal with Cass once on the _Drexl_ , and she will be surrounded by her fellow clan members from Kex. He is sure they will put her well-being first and keep an eye on Cass. After all, Lieutenant Lance has been instructed to be in charge of Talia’s safety. The younger Mandalorian will definitely find out what Cass has done to her once he boards the _Drexl_. From the moment she surrendered her wrists to be restrained by cuffs, Talia has no longer been the bounty hunter’s responsibility, not anymore. And he needs to let her go.

He comes to an abrupt halt, his boots almost slipping on the dewy grass. The Onderonian transport slides its doors shut before leaping into the air. It races into the sky, disappearing in the thick clouds. As the roaring of ship’s engines decrease, he can hear thunder rumble nearby.

Frustrated at this whole ordeal, he holsters his pistol. His left hand squeezes into a tight fist, and that is when he feels something impress his skin. Remembering that Talia had slid a metal item in there earlier, he removes his glove. But while doing this, he feels whatever she had given to him tumble to the bottom, so he turns the glove upside down and catches the item in his other hand. And there, twinkling up at him, is her Mandalorian ring. Despite his refusal of such a prized gift, she had given it to him anyways.

He does not know how long he stands there, staring at the single piece of jewelry, thinking of the woman whom it belonged to and wondering if she will truly be all right. But what shakes him out of his reverie are a few drops of rain falling from the sky. One by one they splatter onto his silvery armor and drip over the valuable ring like tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am anxious to know what you all think of "My Weapon, My Religion." Please don't be a silent reader! 
> 
> And now, we've reached the end. But fear not! I have plans for another part in this series if you, dear readers, are interested. Keep a look out for my second story. I am hoping to post it on Friday.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment and leave kudos!


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